


A Song of Two Swords (Original)

by TheWolfDragon15



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gay, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Male Bonding, warm feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolfDragon15/pseuds/TheWolfDragon15
Summary: A grizzled mercenary who has grown disillusioned with the world. A man running from his past who discovers he is a legendary hero reborn. A chance encounter unites these unlikely allies.





	1. A Stranger

Stenvar sighed. He sat in the crowded upper floor of Candlehearth Hall, the inn and most popular social gathering spot for the Nords of Windhelm. He sat at a small table in the corner by himself drinking mead from a small metal tankard. Despite the biting cold outside, a warm feeling spread through his body as the mead slid down his throat and into his stomach.

 

The mercenary wasn’t the biggest fan of Windhelm. Sure, it wasn't a terrible place. It was relatively crime free as opposed to the skeever-hole that was Riften, and significantly less cold than Winterhold. There was no chance of Forsworn savages or ancient dwemer machines taking your head off like in Markarth (though he'd heard talk of a killer known as the Butcher prowling the streets of Windhelm at night), and the city’s high walls offered far more protection than in Dawnstar or Morthal. Still, Windhelm had of its own problems, the biggest one being the people. For the most part, the citizens of Eastmarch hold’s capital city were decent enough. But more than a few of the local Nords held incredibly prejudiced views towards anyone who wasn’t their own. Being a Nord, Stenvar was able to avoid their paranoia and vitriol, but he saw how they treated the Kajiit, the Argonians, and especially the Dark Elves, who they’d confined to living in Windhelm’s eastern slums, the Grey Quarter. It disgusted him.

 

Of course, he wasn’t about to go protesting the Nords and their city to get better treatment for the elves, cats, and lizards. He was a mercenary, and that meant he sold his talents to whoever was willing to pay. If he went around telling these Nords they were making asses of themselves and their city, well, he’d certainly lose a lot of potential clients. Windhelm’s Nords had themselves a decent amount of coin. And so he just did as he always did: kept to himself and waited for the perfect opportunity to sell his services.

 

The Stenvar tipped his tankard back absently mindedly. Then he put it down and peered inside of it. Empty. He looked around, hoping he could catch the attention of a serving girl and get some more mead. No luck. Susana must have headed back downstairs to grab more food and drink for the patrons who had crowded around the hearth. He sighed and stood up, then made his way down the stairs.

 

As he leaned on the counter, waiting for the innkeeper Elda to fish out another bottle of mead, the door to Candlehearth Hall opened, letting in a blast of cold air. The chill from outside crept under Stenvar’s skin and chilled his insides. He cursed under his breath. He’d always been more susceptible to the cold than most Nords. He turned his head to see who it was that had let the cold in, and his eyes settled on a face he’d never seen before.

 

Standing in the doorway was a man, clad in studded armor, hide boots, and leather bracers, and had a dark hood pulled over his head. In the inn's lighting, the hood cast long, dancing shadows over the man's face that concealed his features. He had broad shoulders and was of average height and build, only a tad bit smaller than Stenvar. Strapped at his hip was a war axe made of fine steel and engraved with looping Nordic symbols. Normally, Stenvar paid no mind to the myriad travelers that passed through the inn, but this stranger was different. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt there was something off about this man.

 

Stenvar kept quiet, but he watched the man from the corner of his eye as he walked over to the opposite end of the counter and took a seat. Once Elda finished filling Stenvar’s tankard (she rolled her eyes when he’d thanked her. She’d never liked Stenvar, and he had to admit the feeling was mutual), she turned her attention to the newcomer.

 

“What can I get you, dearie?” she asked, putting on the persona of a kind, friendly innkeeper, which Stenvar chuckled at under his breath.

 

"Well, it depends," the stranger replied. His voice was deep but smooth, a not unpleasant sound to hear. "Have any rooms to rent?”

 

“Aye, I do,” Elda replied. “Ten gold and it’s yours for the day.”

 

“I’ll take it.” The man pulled a couple of gold septims from a pouch at his side and slid them across the counter. After Elda had counted the coins and was satisfied that he’d paid the proper amount, she gestured to the hallway to the right of the counter.

 

"First room on the left. Want anything to eat or drink? I imagine you need something to warm your bones with that chill outside."

 

As the stranger was about to respond, the door burst opened, letting in a blast of cold air and a panicked looking man. The man wore fine looking blue clothing and kept his long dark hair, which had started to grey, in a ponytail. Stenvar recognized that man – and, more importantly, the smell of sea-salt that followed him – anywhere. It was Captain Lonely-Gale, a retired sea captain. While he wouldn’t exactly call each other close friends, Stenvar had done some mercenary work for the man in the past. He was an honest and patient man, and Stenvar respected him. Lonely-Gale’s chest was heaving, as though he had just finished sprinting across the entirety of Skyrim.

 

“Lonely-Gale?” Elda asked. “What’s the matter?”

 

The old sea captain took a moment to catch his breath. It seemed as though everyone had heard the commotion and had come to investigate, drawing their attention away from their drinks for the moment. The people upstairs had even come downstairs to see what was going on.

 

“D-dragon,” Lonely-Gale stammered, fear still present in his voice. “T-there’s a dragon. It’s attacking Kynesgrove!” The crowd that had gathered collectively gasped and started shouting out concerned questions, ranging from the size of the dragon to whether or not Lonely-Gale hadn’t just had too much to drink and imagined it. Stenvar remained silent, though he was intrigued upon hearing mention of a dragon. He’d heard rumors those beasts had returned, but had never believed them to be true. Strangely enough, the stranger seemed unfazed by this information.

 

“That’s impossible,” someone from the crowd shouted. “A living dragon hasn’t been seen ages!”

 

"I know what I saw," Lonely-Gale responded. "I swear on my life that it was a dragon! It flew overhead and started flying around the hill behind the inn. We heard its roars and went outside to investigate, not knowing what it was. Once we realized it was a dragon, we all fled."

 

“Where’s everyone else then?” Stenvar couldn’t tell who had shouted that question, but the voice was shrill.

 

“They’re on their way, last I saw. I was the first one to get here. I thought it best to warn everyone not to leave the city.”

 

“Does Jarl Ulfric know?” Elda asked. Stenvar noticed that she was now visibly shaking in fear.

 

“Some of the miners said they would warn him, but I’m not sure if the guards know how to handle a dragon attack. Nor if they even want to.”

 

 _That’s it,_ Stenvar thought. _An opportunity._ He stayed in his seat, waiting for the right moment to sell himself as the solution to their problem – for a fee, of course. He imagined that these folks would pay handsomely to see such a dangerous creature dealt with. Stenvar had never fought a dragon before, of course – they'd been extinct for millennia. Still, how hard could a single dragon be to kill? He'd faced worse foes in his time and lived to tell the tale.

 

Just then, the stranger stood up and approached Lonely-Gale. "I'll take care of the dragon for you," the stranger offered, placing a hand on the sea captain's shoulder.

 

“What? You must be crazy,” the Lonely-Gale responded. “That beast is the size of this building, perhaps even larger.”

 

“I heard a single dragon burned down Helgen,” someone else shouted. “What hope do you have of standing against such a creature?”

 

“I’ve killed dragons before,” the stranger replied calmly.

 

“Impossible,” another voice yelled from the crowd. “No man could kill one of those beasts!”

 

“Tell that to the dragon that attacked Whiterun,” the man responded. “Ask any of the guards in that city. I fought side by side with them and landed the killing blow that ended that beast.”

 

Lonely-Gale cleared his throat, getting the man’s attention. “If what you say is true and you take care of that beast, the people of this city will be in your debt. I promise we’ll pay you handsomely.”

 

The stranger waved off the offer. “Keep your money,” he said, his voice soft and kind. “Consider this a favor.” Stenvar didn’t make a sound, but he was floored. This man was offering to kill a dragon for free? He was either overconfident or insane. Most likely he was both. And what more, he’d just robbed Stenvar of a potentially huge payday.

 

"You would really do this for nothing? For people you just met?" The stranger nodded. Lonely-Gale grasped the man's shoulders in appreciation. "You are a hero, stranger. May the Divines smile upon you, and may Shor personally welcome you into the halls of Sovngarde.”

 

The stranger shook his head. “I’m no hero, just a man offering his help to someone in need.”

 

While the newcomer continued talking with Lonely-Gale, Stenvar observed him. He’d spent the past 27 years of his life fighting around Skyrim. He'd become well acquainted with the various subtle mannerisms of warriors and their meanings, things that the people of Windhelm obviously couldn’t see. What he saw was that the man was injured, although he was trying his best to hide it. And although he was trying to keep his voice confident to keep the people assured that he could handle the dragon no problem, Stenvar could hear the way his voice slightly wavered. The stranger knew that his injuries, whatever they were, would make the coming battle more than he could handle. So why did he continue to offer his help? Whatever his reasons were, they didn't matter at the moment. Stenvar saw himself a new opportunity to get paid.

 

At last, the stranger finished talking with Lonely-Gale. He sat back down and asked Elda for her strongest ale. While she was fetching the drink from beneath the counter, Stenvar made his move. He got up, walked over to the other end of the counter, and sat down right next to the man.

 

“You really plan on fighting a dragon with those injuries?” he asked. The traveler turned to face the old Nord, a look of confusion on his face.

 

“Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re—”

 

"Save it," Stenvar interrupted. His voice was low so that no one else in the inn could hear them talk. "I could tell from a mile away that you’re pushing through a serious injury, and a recent one, at that.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re—” the man started, then cut himself off. At that moment he’d unconsciously touched his left side, most likely the location of his injury. When he realized what he’d done, he met Stenvar’s knowing gaze and sighed in resignation. He couldn't hide his injury from the old mercenary and he knew it.

 

“Alright, I’m injured. I fail to see what that has to do with you,” he finally said.

 

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s got nothing to do with me. You could walk out of this inn right now and it’d have no effect on my life. Of course, if you went after a dragon in this condition you’d most likely end up as nothing more than a tasty snack. Or,” Stenvar gestured to himself. “I could join you on your little hunt and greatly improve your chances of coming back alive.”

 

The stranger scoffed. “So you’re, what, my knight in shining armor?”

 

Stenvar laughed. “If I were only so noble. I’m less of a savior and more of a solution to your little problem—”

 

“For a price,” the man finished. Stenvar gave him a guilty smile.

 

“A man’s gotta make a living somehow.”

 

The traveler didn’t say anything in reply. Instead, he just stared at Stenvar, as though he were studying him. For the first time, the old mercenary was able to get a good look at the newcomer’s face. He looked younger than Stenvar, a little over a decade or so. He sported short jet black hair and full beard that was trimmed short so that it extended just beyond his chin. His bushy brows were furrowed as he seemed to consider the Nord's offer. He had a thin scar on that looked like someone had not too long ago drew a blade across his left cheek and his prominent nose. His skin was a few shades darker than Stenvar’s fair Nordic skin, but nowhere near as dark as the Redguards of Hammerfell. Between his olive skin color and his nose, Stenvar surmised that this man was an Imperial from Cyrodiil, the capital of the Empire. Given his lack of Imperial armor, he wasn’t a Legionary. _If that’s the case,_ thought the old mercenary, _then what’s an Imperial doing wandering around Skyrim?_

 

Finally, the man sighed and tore his eyes away from Stenvar. He kept his gaze on his drink as he spoke. “Fine,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “How much are your services going to cost me?”

 

Stenvar smiled and patted the man on the shoulder. “500 gold.” He saw the man’s shocked expression and laughed. “You won’t owe me any of it until that dragon is put back in the ground. And I promise you’ll see that I’m worth every single septim.”

 

The man just sighed again. He took a long drink of his ale, then slammed the bottle back on the table, empty. He sat up and looked Stenvar in the eyes. He extended his arm to the old Nord. “I’m Cato.”

 

Stenvar gripped the man’s forearm in reply. “Stenvar.”

 

Cato dropped his arm. “Let’s go do this.” Stenvar whooped and beat his fist on the chest piece of his steel armor.

 

“Let’s go kill us a dragon!”


	2. Field Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intense snowstorm and Cato's lingering injury temporarily halt the duo's journey to Kynesgrove, giving the newfound companions a chance to get to know each other.

Cato was in over his head, and he knew it. With every step he took, the wound in his side flared with pain. The cold was only making it hurt more. To make matters even worse, a snow storm had started brewing and was growing stronger every second. It had started shortly after he and the mercenary, Stenvar, had left Candlehearth Hall. Now they were about halfway to Kynesgrove and the light snowfall had quickly morphed into a storm. Snowflakes the size of small rocks flew before his face, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead.

 

The Imperial stumbled as a sharp pain traveled up his side. In an instant, there was a hand at his back helping him to steady himself. “Hey, are you alright?” Stenvar asked, his gruff voice barely audible over the howling wind.

 

“I’m fine,” Cato replied, shouting to be heard. He was thankful that Stenvar was with him, though he wouldn’t admit it. On his way to Windhelm he’d been attacked by a crazed woman in a hooded brown robe. He’d been unable to see her face as it had been covered by a mask made of bones, but she seemed to know who he was. She’d managed to get the drop on him and had used a black sword with a serrated blade to cut into his side while shouting something about ‘killing the heretic.’ Despite initially being taken by surprise, Cato had been able to turn the tide of the fight and kill his attacker.

 

He’d tried casting a healing spell to patch up his wounds, but something had been wrong. The spell had been ineffective, and the wounds inflicted by the woman’s blade hadn’t healed. It was almost as if the sword had been doused in some sort of poison that countered the effects of healing magic and healing potions. Who had she been, and what had she meant when she said that Cato was a heretic? Whoever she was, he was forced to let the wounds heal naturally, which left him vulnerable.

 

He’d considered ignoring this most recent dragon attack. When the old sea captain, Lonely-Gale, had rushed in warning of a dragon attack, a voice in his head had told him to mind his own business for once. He knew that he needed to take time to heal before he was ready to hunt another dragon. But he thought of Arngeir and the Greybeards, of the lessons they’d taught him and the destiny they’d revealed to him. Cato was the Dragonborn, a reincarnated hero with the body of a mortal and the soul of dragon. As Dragonborn, he was the only person capable of truly killing a dragon by devouring its soul. Didn’t that mean he had a responsibility to protect people from the dragon menace? But if he died going after this dragon, who would protect the people then? Just as he was about to leave Lonely-Gale’s cries for help go unanswered, he’d thought of his life in Cyrodiil, of that woman, of the life he was trying to leave behind him. And just like that, he found himself playing the hero and offering his help to take care of the dragon at the risk of losing his own life.

 

Cato stumbled again, this time sinking to his knees in the snow. He cursed under his breath as he held his side. “Ah damn it,” he heard Stenvar mutter. Within seconds, the Nord had thrown Cato’s arm over his shoulder and lifted him to his feet. “We’re stopping.” The Nord’s tone was final.

 

“N-no,” Cato protested. “The longer we take, the more harm the dragon could cause.”

 

“And what good do you think you’ll be against it in this condition?” Stenvar countered. “At the very least, let’s just take a moment to warm up while I take a look at your injury.”

 

“But—”

 

“Just stop arguing, will you? I’m sure the dragon will still be flying around when we get there.” Cato reluctantly stopped arguing, and the two of them walked off the path with Stenvar leading the way.

 

“Where are you going?” Cato asked, worried that they’d get lost straying off the path in this weather.

 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a cave just off the path over here that we can shelter in until the storm passes.”

 

“How sure is ‘pretty sure’?”

 

“I…well…Look, I think I’ve seen a cave around here the past few times I’ve visited Windhelm. Just trust me on this one.”

 

The two of them wandered through the snow for what seemed like hours but was actually only a number of minutes. Cato began to worry that they were lost and thought to himself that they should have just kept on their way to Kynesgrove. He couldn’t hear the words that Stenvar grumbled under his breath, but he caught a swear here and there. Finally, they came across a shallow cave in the side of a small hill.

 

“Aha! Found it,” Stenvar exclaimed. “I knew it was here.” From the relief in his voice, Cato could tell that he’d been worried that they weren’t going to find it. With a slight smirk, Cato decided to let it pass without comment.

 

Once they were inside Stenvar lowered Cato to the ground. “Thanks,” Cato mumbled.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Stenvar replied. “Although it probably would’ve been easier to just leave you for dead and take your gold.” Cato stared back at him. After a moment, Stenvar burst out into laughter, the sound deep, booming, and full of joy. “I’m only joking! You should’ve seen the look on your face!

 

“Right,” Cato said with a weary laugh.

 

“Hey, you don’t get a reputation as good as mine by stabbing your clients in the back. I assure you that there’s no place safer for you in Skyrim than at my side” Stenvar began to rummage through his travel pack, which he’d placed on the ground, and withdrew a bundle of sticks. He noticed Cato’s look of confusion.

 

“For a fire,” he explained. “I always carry some along in case something like this happens. Besides,” he continued as he began using the sticks to construct the base of a fire. “It saves time if I end up having to set up camp for the night.” Once he’d had the base of the fire finished, he went back to his travel pack. After a minute of searching around, he tossed his bag to the side. “Shit,” he muttered.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I’ve got nothing to light the fire with.” Cato smiled in response. He raised his hand and aimed it at the pile of sticks. A torrent of flames shot forth from his hand, filling the outcropping with orange light. Stenvar jumped back in surprise. Cato closed his fist and the flames stopped, leaving the flickering flames of Stenvar’s sticks as the only source of light.

 

“Damn! Not gonna lie, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a wizard,” Stenvar exclaimed.

 

“I prefer the term battle mage,” Cato corrected with a smile, gesturing to the war axe strapped to his side. He winced at a stab of pain in his side. Stenvar stood up, walked over, and knelt beside Cato.

 

“Lemme take a look at it,” he insisted.

 

“I’m fine,” Cato protested.

 

“If you were fine we’d already be at Kynesgrove by now. Now quit complaining and let me see your injury.” Cato surrendered and reluctantly removed the upper half of his armor. He shivered as the cold seeped into his bare torso. His muscles were well defined and bulky, contributing to his overall stocky build. His skin was tan, kissed by the southern sun. What truly caught the eye, however, was the scar on his left pectoral. A series of raised lines of discolored skin ran across his pec, as though someone had ran the knife back and forth across the same spot.

 

The injury that was impeding their progress was located on his left side, near his abdomen. The wound was a ghastly sight, with jagged edges of torn flesh pulled together by the shoddy stitching job. He touched his hand to the injury and it came away bloody. His stitches must’ve torn.

 

“Shit. That looks like it must’ve hurt,” Stenvar muttered. The Nord touched the area around the wound, his cold, calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he tried his best to avoid disturbing the jagged, bloody gash.

 

“‘Hurt’ feels like an understatement.” Cato winced and Stenvar retracted his hand.

 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice soft. He whistled. “I’m surprised you made it this far with a wound like this. Whoever tried to stitch this did a shit job. Bastard was either blind or he can’t shoot a bow for shit with hand like that.” Cato bristled at the unintended insult but decided not to respond so as to not give himself away. “Still, as bad as it is it saved your life. Without it you’d probably have bled out. Lucky for you, I’ve done a bit of field medicine in my time. It won’t be a permanent fix, but it should at least hold you together until we kill the dragon. After that, I’d find a healer.”

 

“What exactly are you planning to do?” Cato was afraid he already knew the answer, and it was one that promised to be painful.

 

“Well, I’m fresh out of healing potions—”

 

“They wouldn’t work anyway.” Stenvar looked at his curiously. “It’s a long story.” The mercenary just shrugged and continued.

 

“I’m gonna have to redo these stitches, then I’ll wrap some bandages around it. But in order to do that…” He retrieved a hunting knife from his bag. The blade reflected the orange glow of the firelight. “…I have to take out these old ones. I won’t lie, this is gonna hurt.” Cato gulped. He nodded his head and closed his eyes tight.

 

“Do what you have to.” After a few short minutes of Stenvar carefully cutting the stitches and pulling them out, with Cato grunting loudly with every tug, the stitches were finally out. Stenvar fetched a needle and some string from his pack. Seeing the needle, Cato clenched his fist and tilted his head back, exhaling heavily. “Now for the fun part,” he muttered.

 

“Just try to keep still,” Stenvar instructed. “This’ll go a lot faster if you’re not flailing around.”

 

Cato laughed, trying and failing to hide his nervousness. “No promises.”

 

Stenvar got to work, threading the needle and tugging together the edges of the torn flesh until the wound was closed. The whole time, his brows were furrowed in concentration and he didn’t make a sound. Cato was shocked at how nimble and steady the warrior’s fingers were. He’d never have expected the old Nord to be skilled with work that required such small and precise movements. Yet despite his large, thick fingers, he moved with the skill and grace of a weaver, his movements so smooth that Cato had barely noticed the needle’s presence.

 

Satisfied with his work, Stenvar took a step back and, after washing the Cato’s scarlet blood from his hands with some water from his water skin, wiped some sweat from his brow. Cato looked down, impressed with the near-seamless way that Stenvar had patched him up. “Thank you, Stenvar,” he said, meeting the Nord’s eyes. Stenvar smiled back at him, crossing his arms.

 

“You’re lucky I don’t charge extra for such artistry,” he joked. Cato found himself laughing. He told himself it was the relief that the stitching was done that made him do so, but there was a part of him that doubted that this was true. Stenvar retrieved fresh bandages from his pack and set about carefully wrapping them around Cato’s abdomen.

 

“How’d you say you got this injury again?” he asked as he worked.

 

“I didn’t.” Stenvar looked up at him with his deep blue eyes and a single eyebrow cocked. Cato sighed in surrender. “Some woman attacked me in the woods with a poisoned blade.”

 

“Was she a lover of yours?”

 

“What? No, she was just some cultist.”

 

Stenvar laughed. “I slept with a cultist once. ‘Course I didn’t know he was one until I woke up to find him straddling me with a knife in his hand as he chanted some phrase over and over.”

 

“The woman kept calling me—wait, ‘him’? Your cultist was a man?”

 

“Yeah,” Stenvar said flatly. He looked at Cato from the edges of his eyes, his gaze carrying a warning. “You got a problem with that?

 

“Not at all!” Cato quickly exclaimed. “It’s just…well, back in Cyrodiil such relations are taboo. I’ve never heard a man talk so openly about…uh…”

 

“Prefering the company of other men,” Stenvar finished. “Things are different here in Skyrim. People don’t normally live long lives, so we tend to worry more about our own sex lives than others’. No one will bat an eye whether you bed a man, a woman, or one of them cat folk from Elswyer.” Unsure of how to respond, the Imperial chose to remain silent as Stenvar turned his attention back to his work.

 

Cato found himself watching Stenvar as he worked, taking in his companion’s features. The Nord looked a decade or so older than Cato, with lines permanently etched into his brow. His hair was so short and close to his skull that he was practically bald, and long, thick dark blonde stubble that showed hints of grey clung to his chin, jawline, upper lip, and neck. Bushy eyebrows rested above his eyes, which were a deep blue color that reminded Cato of the sea he’d grown up beside in Cyrodiil. Between his eyes rested a large nose that looked like it’d been broken and repaired by a healer more than a couple times. While the man’s body was covered up by a full suit of Nordic steel armor, his arms were left uncovered by the sleeveless chest piece. Cato found his eyes drawn to the swell of his massive biceps, toned from years of swinging the large iron greatsword that he carried on his.

 

Stenvar suddenly flicked his gaze up, and Cato’s cheeks flushed red beneath his own beard, embarrassed to have been caught staring. Stenvar made a sound like a light chuckle and the corner of his mouth momentarily curled up into a slight smile that quickly disappeared as he returned his focus to wrapping Cato’s wound. Cato felt a sudden awareness of the fact that he was only half dressed. His own torso was well toned and thick with muscle that was covered by a thick layer of dark hair and ran from his chest to his lower abdomen. He ran a hand through his short dark hair, finding himself wishing for Stenvar to hurry up and finish so he could dress.

 

At least, Stenvar stood and stepped away from Cato. “Alright, you should be good to go,” he announced. Cato slowly stood up and put his armor back on, thanking Stenvar once more. “Just try to take it easy. Well, as easy as you can while fighting a dragon. It’ll make both of our lives easier if you avoid tearing open those stitches again.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Looking outside, it appeared that the storm had died down quite a bit. While he felt better after being patched up, part of him still regretted that they’d stopped for so long. What if the dragon had flown off while Stenvar was tending to him? He hoped that they hadn’t put more lives at risk by stopping.

 

It didn’t take them long to get back on the road. Cato walked at a brisk pace, while Stenvar muttered under his breath how he should’ve stayed back in the cave with the nice warm fire.

 

“Got a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Stenvar said, walking up beside Cato. “If you knew you were this injured, why’d you agree to hunt this dragon at all, let alone for free?”

 

Cato looked at him. Stenvar was a few inches taller than he was, so he had to look up to look him in the eyes. “Because they needed help,” he said simply. Stenvar rolled his eyes. “What, was I supposed to just walk away?”

 

“Last I checked, it’s the city guard’s job to protect their people, not some random traveler’s. I’d have at least made sure I’d be rewarded for my time.”

 

“You’d find a way to profit off of their misfortune, you mean.”

 

“Told you before, a man’s gotta make a living. If I went around offering my services for free, I’d starve.”

 

“And if you pass by someone in need who can’t afford your services?”

 

Stenvar shrugged. “Not my problem.” Cato made a sound of disbelief. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re one of those adventurers that goes around helping every poor sap he comes across.”

 

“You have something against selflessness?”

 

“Naivete, more like it.”

 

Cato was growing frustrated. “I’ve never heard of anyone so selfish as to think helping people is naive.”

 

“Helping people isn’t naive. The idea that doing so will somehow change the world is.” Cato scoffed at this.

 

“That’s exactly the mindset I’d expect from someone who profits off of people in need.” Stenvar placed a hand on Cato’s chest stopping the two of them in their tracks.

 

“Let’s get two things straight. First, you don’t know a thing about me, so I suggest you stop making judgments before you say something I’ll make you regret. Just because you’re my client doesn’t mean I won’t knock you to the ground if you push me.” Cato pushed Stenvar’s arm off of his chest and stepped back. “Second, I am not some con man or a low-life opportunist. Just because I charge a fee for my services doesn’t mean I’m some bandit. You’d be wise to keep that in mind going forward. Not all mercenaries are as forgiving as I am. Most of them would run you through for insulting their honor like this.”

 

“Duly noted,” Cato grumbled, walking past Stenvar.

 

“I get it, you know,” Stenvar continued, walking beside him. “Your desire to make the world a better place. I was just like you when I first left my father’s lumber mill to travel Skyrim with nothing but a purse of coins and the sword on my back. I went around helping every poor sap I came across for nothing more than a thank you. I cleared out more bandit camps than I could count thinking that I could cure this land of evil. Three winters later, I was starving on the cold streets without a single septim to my name while corrupt officials were living like kings in palaces. As for all the bandits I’d slain? New ones simply moved in to the camps I’d cleared. I realized that no matter how much good I’d done, there would always be more evil in the world. Good people would suffer and die and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I’d love nothing more than to see Skyrim become a better place, but I realized that there isn’t a damn thing that one man can do to make it that way. Only thing I can do is look out for myself and make sure I have enough money to keep myself warm and well fed. One of these days you’re gonna have the same realization. I just hope it happens before you wind up dead.”

 

Cato opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by a loud sound that echoed across the landscape. It was a sound he’d crown quite familiar with. “Dragon,” he said. Stenvar bared his teeth in a wolfish smile.

 

“Finally,” he exclaimed, dropping the conversation entirely. “Been itching to introduce it to my blade.” He ran ahead. Cato followed behind, but his mind was still on Stenvar’s words. Was he right? Was it stupid to think that one man could make a difference in the world? He had to believe that the Nord was wrong, otherwise everything he’d done since leaving Cyrodiil would have been for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo readers! Happy New Year! Sorry for the wait. Got caught up in the holiday madness these past two weeks. So as much as I love Skyrim, it really doesn't give players much in terms of mercenaries with personalities or stories. While in-game Stenvar is charming, he lacks any level of depth. This gave me plenty of liberty to do whatever I pleased with his origin and character, so I hope you enjoy the direction I've taken. Things in the story will start to ramp up from here on out. 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed the new total chapter count of 30. That is wholly preliminary and, right now, more like wishful thinking. I may end up needed more or less than 30 chapters to tell this story, so don't hold me to that number.


	3. Dragon Slayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving at Kynesgrove, the time has come for Cato and Stenvar to kill the dragon that had attacked the defenseless settlement. But can two regular men hope to stand against the might of a dragon?

Finally they had reached the settlement of Kynesgrove. Stenvar noticed Cato reach into his bag and take something out. It was a corked bottle. The Imperial uncorked it and raised it his lips, taking a long drink of its contents. The mercenary sniffed the air. Was that… Cyrodiilic Brandy? Cato saw Stenvar eyeing him skeptically.

 

“Courage,” he whispered. He held the bottle out to offer him a drink. Despite the biting cold in his hands that begged for some drink to warm his bones, Stenvar shook his head. He’d never used drink to help him conquer the fear of a coming battle. He embraced the fear. It made him fight smarter. Cato took one last quick sip before corking the bottle and placing it back in his bag.

 

The men slowly approached Kynesgove, taking in their surroundings. Looming above Braidwood Inn, the central structure of the settlement, was the summit of a steep hill. There a dragon flew in circles around a spire of light that shot up from the ground and reached into the dark clouds that hung low overhead. It was midafternoon when the pair had set out from Candlehearth Hall. Even after stopping, they couldn’t have taken more than an hour to reach Kynesgrove. Yet the sky had grown so dark that it seemed night had fallen over the world. Did this have something to do with the spire of light?

 

Stenvar couldn’t help but notice the death that seemed to surround them. At first all he’d noticed were the bodies clad in blue armor – Jarl Ulfric’s Stormcloaks. These soldiers must have been guarding Kynesgrove when the dragon attacked. They died protecting the people, and Stenvar was able to push their corpses from his mind. But then he’d noticed more bodies. The tattered, burnt remains of simple dresses and knitted white tunics clung to the countless charred corpses that were strewn about the settlement. A thin coating of white snow had come to rest on the blackened bodies. Stenvar’s pace slowed as he caught site of them. So many innocent lives snuffed out in an instant. What had their last thoughts been? Had they prayed to the Divines for mercy? For salvation? For a hero? Could he have saved them if they’d only been quicker to arrive? _Don’t,_ he told himself. _There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent their deaths. Being here only would’ve ensured your own._ Still, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that clung to him, nurtured by the eerie silence broken only by the occasional roar of the dragon.

 

As the two men prepared to climb the narrow path up the hill that led to the summit, Stenvar reached out and placed a hand on Cato’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said, his voice taking on a much softer tone than before. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” He saw Cato’s hand subtly touch his injury.

 

“Yes,” the Imperial replied, his voice resolute. Stenvar looked into his amber eyes for a moment to see if they betrayed any doubts that his voice hid. He saw that the man’s soft eyes seemed to glow with determination. Satisfied, Stenvar dropped his hand.

 

“Then let’s do this.”

 

While the storm had lessened in intensity, there was still a strong wind and a curtain of snowflakes that made the steep climb up the hill more difficult than it should have been. While Stenvar made the climb no problem, he could tell that Cato was struggling. His hand hovered over his side the whole way up, and he was breathing heavily by the time they reached the summit. He knew he’d have to keep a constant eye on his companion as they fought. Otherwise the bastard would get himself killed.

 

Finally they reached the top of the hill. There was nothing up there except for a flat clearing and a mound of dirt in the center. It was from this mound of dirt that the spire of light emerged. Now that they were closer, Stenvar was able to get a better look at the beast that flew overhead. It was the color of the moonless night, with glowing, blood-red orbs for eyes and massive wings that could blot out the sun. The beast’s body was covered in thick scales and large, jagged horns that looked like they could easily impale a man. As the dragon began to circle back towards them, Cato grabbed Stenvar by the shoulders and dragged him down behind a rock, concealing them from the beast’s view.

 

Stenvar was acutely aware of Cato’s body on top of his. He was also aware of the younger man’s arms on either side of him leaning against the rock, the tan, muscular limbs covered in thick layer of hair and fully exposed to the elements by the sleeveless hide armor that he wore. The sight made the Nord think of the battlemage’s bare chest, his warrior-like physique, his handsome features.

 

Stenvar shook his head. This was not the time to be distracted by carnal desires. Besides, nothing good ever came from seducing his clients. Best to keep things professional. Yet when Cato took a slight step back, Stenvar couldn’t shake his awareness of the newfound space between them, nor his feeling of disappointment.

 

“Wait,” the Imperial whispered. “I want to see what it’s doing.”

 

“Are you insane,” Stenvar protested. “I say we take it down now before it realizes we’re here.”

 

“Dragons haven’t been seen for thousands of years. You aren’t the least bit curious about their rituals?”

 

“Not in the slightest,” Stenvar said brusquely, turning away from Cato.

 

Peaking over the rock, Stenvar saw that the black-winged terror had stopped circling the spire of light and was now stationary in the air. He estimated that the dragon was only a few hundred feet away. He carefully unslung his hunting bow that was resting beside his iron greatsword and slowly knocked a steel arrow. He pulled the arrow back and aimed for the beast’s eye. A perfectly placed shot could blind it, giving him the advantage. Bringing this beast down would be just like the time he’d hunted a mammoth for a client. Just with less angry giants. And instead of a lumbering mammoth, it was a dragon that could fly. Best not to think too hard about it.

 

He pulled the bowstring back, lined up the shot…but stopped. He didn’t know why, but ever since he’d laid eyes on the dragon he’d had the feeling that somehow he knew this beast, although he’d never seen a living dragon before now. Still, there was something about the piercing red eyes, the wings black as night. It stirred something in him. A memory from long ago, of a story told by the warm light of a fire in the dead of night…

 

And then the dragon began to speak. Stenvar didn’t understand a word of its ancient language, but the entire world seemed to shake every time it opened its mouth. He dropped his arrow trying to keep his balance as he was thrown against the cold rock. He cast his eyes back to see how Cato was faring, but to his shock the Imperial stood stock still, seemingly unaffected by the power of the dragon’s words. He was staring directly at the dragon with the expression one wore when they thought they saw someone that they recognized. And he was completely exposed.

 

“Cato, what are you—” Stenvar tried to call out but was interrupted by a blinding flash of bright light. He rubbed his eyes until his sight returned. What he saw next defied explanation. The black-winged dragon was still hovering overhead, but the spire of light had disappeared. The mound of dirt in the center of the hill began to stir, and suddenly a skeletal form began to claw its way out into the frigid open air. The massive skeleton pulled itself out of the freshly dug hole and onto the snowy grass, and Stenvar realized he was looking at the reanimated bones of a dragon.

 

“Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse,” the black dragon bellowed. “Len Tiid Vo!” There was a booming clap of thunder, and Stenvar’s jaw dropped in disbelief as he saw the skeletal form’s bones glow bright orange like a fire had been lit inside them. It was enveloped in a white light, and when it cleared a massive dragon with grey flesh and grey-green scales stood in place of the bones.

 

“Alduin, thuri,” the grey dragon bellowed, its voice nowhere near as earth-shaking as the black one’s. “Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”

 

“Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir,” the black dragon replied. Sahloknir? Alduin? Stenvar didn’t understand the dragons’ language, but he’d heard those words before, long ago. No, they weren’t words. They were names. There was something else to them. They were important somehow, but he couldn’t recall what it was.

 

Then the black dragon turned it’s blood-red eyes toward them. His heart pounded. _Shit. There goes the element of surprise._ He quickly knocked another arrow and aimed for the beast, but it didn’t flinch. In fact, the dragon appeared to not even notice that Stenvar was there. Its gaze was fixed solely on Cato, who now stood tall in the falling snow and glared back at the dragon, his axe held at his side in his right hand and his left hand glowing at his side with a flame spell at the ready.

 

“Ful,” the dragon spoke, “losei Dovahkiin? Zu’u koraav nid nol dov do hi.” Cato said nothing in reply, but the look that briefly flashed across his face betrayed the fact that he understood nothing of what the beast had said. It laughed, a sickening, malicious sound that echoed around them. “You do not even know our tongue, do you?” It could speak the common tongue? He’d been vaguely aware from old stories that dragons had spoken in their own dragon language, but to learn that they also could speak the language of men? Could this day get any stranger?

 

“Such arrogance,” the black dragon continued, “to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.” For a brief moment, the dragon’s eyes flicked over to Stenvar. The Nord had faced plenty of monsters, beasts, and overwhelming numbers of foes in his life, and in all that time he’d never felt fear like he did when those red eyes fell upon him. He found himself paralyzed by a cold, overwhelming fear. The dragon’s eyes quickly returned to Cato, yet Stenvar could still feel the weight of its gaze. “It disgusts me to see you ally yourself with such pitiful creatures as men. You are an insult to the name of Dovah.” Cato raised his axe and gritted his teeth. He took on a fighting stance, prepared for the dragon to attack.

 

“Who are you?” Cato yelled back at the dragon. “How do you know what I am?” The dragon merely laughed its sickening laugh once more.

 

“You are a fool to think you can stand against me. You are weak, insignificant.” It said something in its incomprehensible dragon language, then returned to common. “You are powerless to fight against fate.” The dragon turned its attention to the newly risen grey dragon. “Sahloknir,” it bellowed. “Krii daar joorre.” With that, the black winged dragon flew off, leaving Cato, Stenvar, and the grey dragon behind.

 

“Wait!” Cato shouted after the black dragon, failing to notice the grey dragon lift itself into the air and snarl, its dark, hungry eyes fixed on the Imperial.

 

“Watch out!” Stenvar shouted, lunging forward and tackling Cato to the ground seconds before the grey beast shot past the spot where Cato had previously been standing. Cato came to his senses, realizing that Stenvar had just saved his life. Stenvar stood up off of Cato, grasping the Imperial’s arms and helping him to his feet.

 

“I need you to focus or we’ll both wind up dead!” Stenvar nocked another arrow and took aim. The dragon was flying quickly, making it harder for him to line up his shot. Cato raised his hand and flames shot forth in the direction of the dragon, which maneuvered itself so that it was always just ahead of the flames. Suddenly Stenvar had an idea. “Try to lead it to the left so I can line up my shot!”

 

“Are you sure you’ll be able to hit it?” Cato asked.

 

“Just do it!” Stenvar shouted back. Cato did as he was told and unleashed another torrent of flames at the flying terror, this time leading the dragon in a constant direction, right to the spot where Stenvar had lined up his shot. He let the arrow fly, feeling the twang of the bow as the string snapped back into place. The arrow sailed through the air. It momentarily looked like it was going to miss the dragon, but sliced right through the flesh of its wing.

 

The dragon (From what Stenvar had gathered, the black dragon had called it Sahloknir) simply laughed, shaking off the blow. “It’s to be a real fight, then,” Sahloknir bellowed. “Good! My Voice has been silent for too long!” _This one speaks common, too?_ Stenvar wondered. _Can all dragons speak our tongue?_

 

The dragon quickly turned around and began to barrel toward Stenvar. It opened its massive jaws and Stenvar managed to make out three sounds – “Yol toor shul!” – before flames shot from Sahloknir’s opened mouth toward the mercenary. He dove out of the way at the last second, and Cato took the opportunity to throw three consecutive fireballs into the dragon’s side. It rose higher, avoiding the rest of Cato’s spells. But this was the beast’s next mistake, as it turned its belly into an easy target for Stenvar. Still on the ground, he quickly nocked another arrow and fired it into its belly, where it sunk into the flesh with a wet sound and a spurt of dark red blood. The dragon howled in pain once more and flew above the nearby line of trees.

 

Stenvar got to his feet as Cato rushed over to see if he was okay. “What’s it going to take to bring this thing down?” Stenvar growled.

 

“If we can damage one of its wings, it won’t be able to fly off,” Cato proposed. “That’s how we brought down the dragon at Whiterun.”

 

“Yeah, and if I remember correctly you said you fought alongside a legion of the city’s finest guards. Unless those Stormcloaks suddenly stop hiding behind Windhelm’s walls, it’s just you and me here.”

 

“I have something in mind, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

 

“I don’t like where this is going,” Stenvar muttered.

 

“I need you to bait the dragon into position.”

 

“This is a terrible plan.”

 

“I promise I won’t let it harm you.”

 

“What exactly do you plan on doing that you’ll be able to stop a dragon from sinking its claws into me?”

 

“I…it’s hard to explain. You’re going to have to trust me.” Stenvar said nothing in return. Sahloknir roared. It was coming back toward them. “Stenvar, please! This could be our only chance at bringing it down!”

 

“Fine! I’ll be your bait. But I swear to the Nine, if that dragon so much as brushes my arm you’re going to owe me an extra thousand septims!” Stenvar ran toward the empty burial mound, the most open spot on the hill. He jumped in the hole and took cover, while Cato ran back behind the boulder where they’d first taken cover. The dragon flew by overhead, searching for them.

 

“Hiding will not save you, mortals!” the beast bellowed. Stenvar gripped his bow tight. _He'd_   _better not screw me over,_ he thought. He climbed out of the hole and fired off three consecutive arrows. The first two whizzed by the dragon, but the third one buried itself between its scales, staining the grey skin red.

 

The dragon turned its head and saw Stenvar nock another arrow out in the open. “You truly think you can kill me? It seems mortals have become arrogant while I slept. I shall correct this!” It turned and surged toward Stenvar, picking up speed as it flew. The Nord fired arrow after arrow into the dragon, but each arrow seemed to do nothing to slow it down. _Anytime now Cato,_ he thought as he backpedaled, continuing to fire arrows. He reached the edge of the burial mound, almost slipping and falling in. The dragon was nearly upon him. He grasped for another arrow – only to find his quiver empty. Out of options, he dropped his bow and unsheathed his greatsword, gripping it tightly in both hands, preparing to stand his ground.

 

“Fus Ro Dah!”

 

The very world seemed to warp around a shockwave that traveled through the air and collided with the dragon, shaking the world and knocking Sahloknir out of the air. It hit the ground with an impact that shook the ground beneath Stenvar’s feet, and it slid across the ground. Stenvar looked and saw Cato standing in the direction from which the shockwave had come. The Imperial wasted no time and sprinted to where the Sahloknir now lay on the ground. _Was that Cato’s voice? How did he do that?_

 

“Dovahkiin,” the dragon said. “Your voice is strong…for a mortal. But it is no match for mine.” The dragon opened its jaw to breathe its fire once more, but Cato cut his axe into the flesh of one of the dragon’s wings, causing it to cry out in pain. He ran his axe’s blade further down the beast’s wing, leaving a large tear in the flesh as the dragon roared in anger. It reared its head, preparing to swing it into the Imperial’s body. Cato saw this and moved to get out of the way, but stopped. He doubled over, grasping at his side. The dragon’s massive head collided with his back, sending him flying into a nearby tree with a sickening crunch. He did not get up. “Insolent mortal! You will not leave this place alive.” It dropped its jaw, preparing to take a bite out of Cato. Instinct took control of Stenvar’s body, propelling him forward at a full sprint.

 

“Taste this, you overgrown lizard!” Stenvar shouted. The dragon turned its head only for Stenvar to cut out its eye with a powerful downward slash of his greatsword. The dragon howled and turned its body toward Stenvar, flicking out its tail in an attempt to hit the Nord as it turned. Stenvar dropped to the ground, narrowly avoiding the blow. He shot back up and swung his sword in an upward arc, cutting again into the dragon’s face. Scarlet blood dripped from the beast’s massive maw and stained the earth dark red. “You keep calling me mortal, yet you seem to be the one bleeding,” the Nord taunted. The dragon lunged, attempting to bite Stenvar. The Nord raised his sword at the last moment and the dragon’s jaw clamped down on the blade. Stenvar tried to wrench his blade free, but the dragon was too strong; it ripped the blade from his hands and sent it flying down the side of the hill. “Shit,” he muttered.

 

“I am Sahloknir!” the dragon roared. “Hear my Voice and despair!” It dropped its jaws and Stenvar barely managed to dive out of the way of the shards of ice that erupted from its mouth, although a few stray shards managed to cut into his arms, drawing blood. The Nord got to his feet and rushed the dragon, jumping up onto its back and grabbing hold of one of its dorsal spines. He drew a steel hunting knife from the sheath strapped to his lower back.

 

“I am Stenvar,” he bellowed. “And I’m the bastard that killed you!” He drove the knife into Sahloknir’s remaining eye. He withdrew the knife and began to stab repeatedly into its head, until finally the dragon collapsed to the ground and fell still. Stenvar stood atop its head, his breaths heavy and his body covered in the beast’s blood. Adreneline pumping through his veins, he felt like he could take on an army all by himself. He’d never felt such a rush in his life. He’d slain a dragon. Stenvar, some nobody mercenary from a lumber mill in the Rift, had slain a dragon.

 

He heard something stir behind him. Cato. He quickly jumped down from the dragon’s corpse and ran over to the tree where Cato lay. “Cato? Speak to me! Are you alright?”

 

The Imperial struggled to push himself up onto his elbows, and Stenvar slowly lifted him to his feet. Cato placed a hand on the spot where he’d been wounded by the cultist. “I think your stitches held up,” he managed to say, a smile on his face. Stenvar smiled, relieved that he was alive. Cato lifted his hand and his body was bathed in a white-gold aura as an orb of light glowed in his hand. After a moment he lowered his hand and the orb, and the aura, disappeared. He began to walk perfectly fine, as though he’d never even taken a hit. The healing spell must have repaired any bones the dragon had broken. He stopped in front of the face of the fallen dragon and just stood there, staring.

 

“Cato?” Stenvar asked. “What are you—”

 

Suddenly the Imperial’s body began to glow. This was no spell; his hands were still at his sides, not making any casting gestures. The dragon’s body began glow an orange color as though its insides had started burning. Stenvar stood back, his eyes fixed on the scene before him. It was as though he was watching the spell the black dragon had cast unravel before his very eyes. The dragon’s skin began to dissolve into dust and its scales fell away as the orange glow became brighter, all the while Cato, his eyes closed, continued to glow brighter as well. Multicolored ribbons of what could only be described as rivers of visible wind began to shoot out of the dragon in every direction. The ribbons converged on Cato and were be absorbed into his body. The space between the man and the dragon began to burn with golden flames. No, they weren’t flames, were they? They were something else. Something almost… spiritual. Just as soon as it began, it stopped. The ribbons and flames were gone, and the dragon was once more nothing but a skeleton. Not a trace of its skin remained, save for a small collection of scales that littered on the ground.

 

Cato opened his eyes and turned to look at Stenvar. The man was no longer glowing, but there was something different about his presence, almost as though there was an invisible aura around him that had grown as stronger. And yet, looking at him, he was still the same man that Stenvar had patched up in the cave.

 

“By the Nine,” Stenvar breathed, still dumbfounded by what he’d witnessed. “What…what was that? What did you do to it?”

 

Cato gave him a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his head. “I’m still not really sure of that myself,” he admitted. “I think I absorbed some sort of power from it.”

 

Then everything clicked inside Stenvar’s head. The way Cato had used some sort of power just by shouting, the way the dragons kept calling him Dovahkiin, his strange interaction with Sahloknir’s corpse. It was just like the legends Stenvar had been told as a child, stories of a mortal warrior who could use the power of the dragons by absorbing the very essence of the beasts.

 

“You’re the Dragonborn,” Stenvar realized. “You’re the one that the Greybeards summoned a few weeks ago.”

 

“That was me,” Cato confirmed with a nod of his head.

 

“I can’t believe it,” Stenvar continued. “The legends were true. I always thought they were just stories told to Nord children to distract them from the horrors of the world. But this… it was like I was partaking in one of those very stories.”

 

“If you hadn’t been here,” Cato said, placing a hand on Stenvar’s shoulder, “this story would’ve ended much differently. Thank you.” His words sparked another realization in the Nord’s mind. The Dragonborn was described in stories as being godlike in his heroism and dragon slaying ability. And yet had Stenvar not been here to save his life, this so-called hero would have met a gruesome end. The legendary dragon slayer couldn’t even slay a dragon on his own. Somehow meeting a figure of myth only proved to him the futility of thinking one man can change the world.

 

Stenvar crossed his arms and smirked, putting on an air of confidence to hide his sullen thoughts. “I think I’ve proved myself to be quite a  good investment,” he joked. Yet Cato didn’t react to the joke. His gaze was distant as he looked toward the horizon, in the direction that the black dragon had flown. Stenvar nudged him on the shoulder. “Still with me?”

 

“Hm? Oh, right.” Cato dug into his travel pack and produced a coin purse. He handed it to the Nord. “You certainly earned it.” With that he began to walk away.

 

“Where are you going?” Stenvar called after him. “Aren’t you gonna head back to Windhelm and tell them you killed the dragon?” Cato shook his head.

 

“I can’t stop thinking about that other dragon, the black one that resurrected Sahloknir. If dragons truly have the power to raise the dead… I need to see the Greybeards.”

 

“hey, you're in no condition to travel, let alone climb up to High Hrothgar. At least let me take you to a healer in the city.” The Imperial shook his head once more.

 

“I have a feeling that there’s something more going on than dragons simply returning to the world. I don’t have any time to waste. As the Dragonborn, it’s my destiny to protect the people of Skyrim.”

 

“And you plan on doing that all by yourself, with a gaping hole in your side? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

 

“You’d be surprised by what one man is capable of doing,” he replied. “Farewell, Stenvar. I hope we meet again someday.” With that, Cato was off to continue his journey, leaving Stenvar standing alone in the gentle snowfall beside the skeletal remains of the dragon. The Nord looked down at the purse in his hands, then back up, only to find that he could no longer see the Dragonborn.

 

_Bastard wants to get himself killed, so be it,_ he thought. _He’s not my problem anymore._ He told himself this, but he couldn’t shake this feeling of sadness that had begun to grow inside him at the Imperial’s departure. _You’d be surprised by what one man is capable of doing_. Cato’s words echoed in the Nord’s mind. Shaking his head, Stenvar turned his thoughts to the warm bath and ale that awaited him back in Windhelm, trying in vain to get Cato off of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Finally! They killed the dragon. This was a great run, guys! I hope you enjoyed the story!
> 
> ...what's that? I'm being told that this story is far from over? It's only just beginning? Well damn, guess you guys are gonna be stuck with me, Cato, and Stenvar for a little while longer ;)
> 
> For real, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. The resurrection of Sahloknir is one of my favorite moments in the game, although I always found the actual fight to be way to easy and lackluster. I decided to spice things up. I tried to use as many in-game quotes to faithfully recreate the scene, but of course I had to change things for the sake of the story. See you guys at chapter 4! The plot only thickens from here.


	4. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling against his darker impulses, Cato thinks back to the life he left behind him and the reasons for his relentless quest to protect the people of Skyrim -- unaware that an unseen predator lies in wait to make him prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The following chapter contains scenes of graphic violence that may upset some readers. Reader discretion is advised. Although, now that I think about it, I did put the graphic violence archive warning on this work, so you should know what you're getting into. Oh well, at least I can say that I warned you. ;)

The fresh snow crunched underfoot as Cato walked down the empty road lined by towering seas of white tress on either side. Birds sang from the snow-covered branches while foxes and rabbits occasionally scurried across the path.

 

The Imperial barely noticed the enchanting scenery, however. His mind was fixated on that black dragon, the one that had flown away after resurrecting Sahloknir. He’d seen that dragon before. It was the same dragon that had attacked Helgen just as the Empire’s executioner prepared to bring his axe down on Cato's head. It called him Dovahkiin, which meant Dragonborn in the ancient dragon tongue. How had it known who he was? Its unexplained knowledge had chilling implications for the attack on Helgen. Had the dragon known that Cato was Dragonborn before he even knew? Had it appeared at Helgen that day trying to kill him? And that resurrection. Could a dragon truly possess the power to raise the dead? Did all dragons have this power? Was this how they were returning? Could a dragon be revived after Cato absorbed its soul? All these questions, and more, he hoped could be answered by the Greybeards.

 

Cato’s spirits sank when he thought about having to climb the 7,000 steps again. He’d barely made it the first time after being attacked by wolves, ice wraiths, a frost troll, and a dragon that had appeared out of nowhere and attempted to throw him off the side of the mountain. And that was when his body was in top condition. He touched a hand to his side again, relieved to find that Stenvar’s stitches were still holding him together.

 

Stenvar. After Cato left Kynesgrove, the grizzled mercenary had lingered in the back of his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about how expertly the Nord had handled himself in the fight against Sahloknir. If Cato hadn’t known any better, he’d have sworn that Stenvar had slain hundreds of dragons over the years. The way he remained calm in the face of a seemingly impossible enemy, the way he’d been able to read its movements and adapt his strategies accordingly. The way he’d constantly watched Cato’s back, how he’d saved his life not once but twice. The Dragonborn had felt… safe. For once, he hadn’t been alone. Now that he was back on his own, he felt… empty. As if this whole time he’d been missing some part of himself but only just realized it was gone, and now the empty space was all he could feel.

 

 _It has to be this way,_ he told himself for perhaps the hundredth time. _Better to leave him thinking I’m some sort of hero than to give him a chance to learn the truth._ It’s what he told himself every time he started to yearn for companionship. He knew that if he let anyone get close to him, it was only a matter of time before they learned about the life he’d led in Cyrodiil. He knew that if someone were to learn the truth, they’d see him for what he really is: a monster. Better to endure the loneliness than suffer through the heartbreak.

 

Cato’s foot collided with a stone that had been covered by the snow and he fell to the ground, landing on the ground with a thud. With a groan, he rolled over onto his back and looked up at the overcast sky. He was exhausted. He needed rest, or at the very least a horse that would carry him the rest of the way to Ivarstead. He laughed to himself, a bitter sound. Like he had the gold to buy a horse. He barely had any money for a room at the cheapest inn, let alone for a horse.

 

A thought passed through his mind. A traveler was sure to pass by this way on horseback. All he would have to do is lie in wait, and then, just as the poor fool passed by—

 

 _No!_ Cato was furious with himself for even entertaining the thought. He didn’t do things like that, not anymore. He came to Skyrim to leave that life behind, not to fall back into his old ways. He’d hurt enough people for one lifetime.

 

He slammed his fist into the ground, then rolled over and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He’d never intended to live the life of a wandering hero. When he’d come to Skyrim, he’d had every intention to find himself a nice, quiet town and spend the rest of his days living an honest life. He’d entertained the idea of becoming a blacksmith or even an instructor in the arcane arts. He’d only traveled to Whiterun at the request of Alvor, the blacksmith of Riverwood, because he owed the man’s nephew, Hadvar, a debt for saving his life at Helgen. One thing led to another and he found himself absorbing some strange power from a dragon he’d slain. Then he was summoned by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar, where the old monks who told him what – or rather who – he was.

 

When he learned that the Dragonborn was a hero of legends, he’d taken it as a sign from the Divines. They were telling him that he needed to atone for his past actions by dedicating his life to helping and protecting the people of Skyrim. It was why he pushed himself so hard, rarely stopping to rest or recuperate from injuries. He couldn’t deny how tired he was, or how much he needed to rest so his wounds could heal, but every second that he wasted on himself could mean the deaths of innocent people that he could have saved.

 

Back on his feet, he dusted himself off and continued on his way—

 

_Wait._

 

Cato froze mid step, keeping his body completely still. Something was off. His eyes scanned the horizon and his ears strained to hear a sound. The forest was silent. The birds had stopped singing and not a single animal scurried across the path. But he didn’t hear the beating wings or echoing roars of a dragon, nor the growl of a bear or a sabre cat. He inhaled, preparing a Shout—

 

Cato let out a howl of pain as an arrow pierced his left shoulder from behind, sinking into his flesh and slicing through him until the arrowhead emerged on the other side. He instinctively reached for the injury and felt the cold metal of the arrowhead soaked in his warm, sticky blood. He readied his war axe in his right hand as he frantically looked around, looking for the source of the arrow. Now that he was fully alert, he was able to hear the twang of a bow and the whistling of an arrow. He managed to sidestep mere moments before the arrow whizzed through the spot where his chest had been. He looked up, and that’s when he saw them. Two figures wearing the white furs of some snowy predator, blending in amongst the thick branches of the trees. Ignoring the pain in his left shoulder, he raised his empty left hand and fired a bolt of violet-blue lightning into the trees. He missed the archers, but managed to sever the branch that one of them was perched on. The other archer quickly nocked and fired another arrow. Cato barely managed to dive out of the way. He prepared to fire off another lightning bolt, but the archer he’d shot out of the tree had scrambled to her feet and swung her bow at Cato. The hard wood crashed into the side of his head. Stars swam across his vision as he fell to the ground. The woman was then on top of him trying to stab a dagger into his good arm. He tried to hold her back with his injured arm, but she was quickly overpowering him. He swung his axe up at her. It sunk her head with a sickening crack and she instantly fell limp. As he pushed the body off of himself, Cato noticed a mark on her left bicep. It was a tattoo of what appeared to be a snarling wolf holding a bloody dagger in its jaws.

 

Cato’s blood ran cold. _They found me._ That single thought sent his mind and body into overdrive. He knew that there would be more of them than just two archers. _I have to get out of here.b_ He rolled out of the way as another arrow rained down from above. The remaining archer cried out in a deep voice, “I’ll kill you for that!” Cato didn’t notice. His attention was drawn elsewhere. In the woods he saw shapes moving toward him. At group individuals of varying shapes, sizes, and races were running toward him, all wearing mismatching sets of steel, leather, hide, and fur armor. Bandits. He didn’t have to get close to know that they all had the same mark as the archer he’d killed. There were too many for him to take on alone, especially in his condition. He had no choice. He turned and ran into the white forest, hoping that the trees would hide him from his pursuers’ line of sight, though every step he took left an imprint in the snow. He didn’t notice that his travel pack had fallen off and was lying abandoned on the side of the road.

 

Cato jumped over fallen tree trunks and scrambled under thick branches. His breathing was heavy. He could feel his body slowing down. He sheathed his axe and broke of the tip of the arrow, then pulled out the broken shaft, the edges of his vision darkening as he tugged the splintered wood out of his body. Without breaking his stride, he began to cast a healing spell. He felt the wound begin to close as a warm feeling washed over his body. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the bandits were gaining on him. He took a deep breath and Shouted. “Wuld Nah Kest!” The world around him blurred as his body raced forward in a gust of wind, cutting through the air at speeds that no normal creature could ever hope to achieve. When the effects of the Shout wore off and he returned to a normal speed, he’d traveled so far ahead that he could no longer see his pursuers, although they could still be heard shouting not far off from where he was. He continued to run.

 

There was the sound of a metal latch being released and a sickening crunch. Cato screamed in pain as he collapsed to one knee. He tried to move his right leg, but it was held in place. His eyes darted over to find that he was stuck in a bear trap that had been covered by the snow. The jagged metal teeth, designed to bring down a large bear, dug into his leg with enough force to reach bone. Trying to move his leg only caused him more pain as the bloodied metal teeth dug deeper into his flesh. He heard the shouting of the bandits getting closer. They’d heard his screams and some of them shouted with sick excitement. They’d placed this trap and who knows how many others around this forest. When they emerged from the forest on the other side of the road, he’d ran right into their trap, just as they’d intended. He should have anticipated this; he was the one who came up with the tactic.

 

He tried to pry the bear trap open with his hands, but to no avail. He looked over his shoulder. The first of the bandits, though still far off, was coming into view. They’d be on him in moments. He had to get out. His hands shaking from the pain, he grabbed his axe and stuck part of the blade in the gap between the large metal teeth of the trap. He pushed one his axe, trying to use it as a sort of lever to open the jaws of the trap. He felt the trap slowly start to move as the teeth pulled out of his leg. The pain was immense, but he couldn’t stop. He gritted his teeth and continued to push through the pain. His face was drenched with cold sweat. He felt a pulsing behind his eyes as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He breaths were quick and ragged. His muscles screamed as he put all of his weight into pushing the axe.

 

Finally, Cato managed to open the bear trap wide enough that he was able to pull his leg right out. It came at a cost; the moment he freed his leg, the trap had snapped shut, severing the head of his axe from the blade, leaving him holding nothing more than a useless stick. The bandits had nearly caught up to him. He could now see all of them, including the archer, who had nocked another arrow and was aiming it right at Cato’s head. He let the arrow fly. Cato had no time to react. If it hadn’t been for luck, the arrow would have pierced his skull. Instead, the arrow grazed the side of his head, slicing through his hair and making a long, shallow cut.

 

“You idiot!” he heard one of the bandits yell. “We need that bastard alive!”

 

Alive? Cato had no time to wonder what she meant by that. He tried to run – and collapsed face-first into the snow as his mangled leg gave out beneath him the moment he put weight onto it. _No no no,_ he repeated in his head. He started to cast another healing spell as he struggled to stand up. Shadows loomed above him, encircling him. _No no no!_ It was too late. He heard mocking laughs and shouted insults all around him. Although he knew it was futile, he still tried to crawl away. A foot slammed onto his back, pushing him into the snow. The bandits laughed at him. A man in poorly stitched fur armor knelt down beside him.

 

“I thought bringing you down was going to be a challenge,” he said with a sneer. “So much for the Demon of Anvil.” Cato breathed in sharply through gritted teeth.

 

“Yol Toor!” he Shouted. A circular ring of fire erupted from his mouth. The fur armor of the bandit who taunted him caught on fire, and the ring of fire managed to burn a section of the bandits the had surrounded him. The force of his Shout had also managed to push back some of the bandits. His attackers momentarily broke out into a panic as they hurried to put out the flames and shouted in confusion, asking what in Oblivion had happened. He used the opportunity to half-crawl away, frantically casting a healing spell to heal his injured leg. He felt the torn skin, muscles, and bone stitch themselves together. He started to lift himself onto his feet.

 

A steel boot swung into his chest, the impact ripping the air from his lungs and leaving him curled up in the snow, gasping for air. He looked up and saw a tall, dark skinned woman looming above him. The steel armor she wore was stained with blood – probably the blood of the corpse that she stole it from. A sword forged from black metal and adorned with elegant swirling shapes sat sheathed at her hip. Her most notable feature, however, was the prominent tattoo on her face. A tattoo of a snarling wolf holding a dagger in its jaws. The mark of the Wolves of Oblivion.

 

“Livius sends his regards,” she snarled. She brought her boot down on Cato’s face with the force of a rampaging mammoth, and the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I mentioned last chapter that I intended to make this chapter and the previous chapter the same chapter, but it would have been too long? Yeah, so, this chapter was ALSO supposed to be longer, but I realized that it would have been very, very long and decided to break it up once more.
> 
> Transition to my main topic of the note: I want to know the opinion of you, my readers, on chapter length. Would you prefer that the story be structured in short, digestible chapters as I have been doing, or would you rather I write longer, meatier chapters where more things happen each installment? each option has pros and cons: shorter chapters means more frequents posts and updates, but will also result in an insanely large chapter total and chapters that may feel as though very little happens (MAY result, meaning that this is not certain). Longer chapters means that posts will become slightly frequent (inability to write due to real-world circumstances notwithstanding), but the chapter total will be more manageable and chapters will feel much meatier. 
> 
> I'm sure there are more pros and cons than I have mentioned here, but please let me know how you guys feel in the comments. And as always, thanks for reading this chapter! I am actually surprised at the number of hits and kudos you guys have given me. I have some issues with confidence in my writing ability (some of my previous notes may have hinted at this), and to see so many people enjoying my work means the world to me. You guys are the best!


	5. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having slain the dragon and received his reward, Stenvar's journey should be over. So why can't he stop thinking of Cato?

Stenvar sighed. He sat in the crowded upper floor of Candlehearth Hall in the heart of the Nordic city of Windhelm, quietly drinking a bottle of mead. The inn was packed tonight. The Nords of the city had all gathered here to celebrate the death of the dragon that had attacked Kynesgrove, unaware of the events that had transpired at the top of the hill.

 

Yet even with people all around him, Stenvar had never felt lonelier. He watched from an empty table in the back of the room as people laughed, danced, and sang. He should go and join them. They were celebrating his victory, after all. He should be celebrating it as well, as any self-respecting Nord would. Instead he kept himself separate from everyone else, hoping that his fifth bottle of mead would finally dull his buzzing thoughts long enough for him to at least pretend to be happy.

 

A figure crossed the room and sat itself down at Stenvar’s table. The mercenary looked up to see the newcomer. He recognized the greying dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

 

“Why the long face, Sten?” Captain Lonely-Gale asked. “I thought this was a celebration! C’mon, dance with me!” His words were slightly slurred, his cheeks were flushed, and he had a ridiculous smile on his face. The old captain had clearly had too much to drink.

 

“Not now, Lonely-Gale,” Stenvar responded, taking another swig of his drink.

 

“Don’t be that way, not tonight. You’ve got plenty reasons to celebrate! You killed a dragon, you’ve got all the mead you can drink free of charge, and I noticed that serving girl Susanna hasn’t been able to take her eyes off you.” Stenvar looked up and, sure enough, he saw a woman in a low-cut dress with ash-blonde hair looking his way. Their eyes met and she smiled at him. His expression remained grim as he turned his attention back to his drink.

 

“Not interested,” he grunted.

 

“Not interested! Every sensible man in the city would kill for the attention she’s giving you, and here you are acting like you couldn’t care less.”

 

Stenvar met Lonely-Gale’s eyes with a harsh look in his own. “I’m not interested in women, Lonely-Gale.”

 

“Not interested in… Ah, I understand. Well, still, I’m sure there are plenty of men here tonight who’d be willing to fuck you after what you did to that dragon.”

 

“I’ll pass.”

 

The captain looked at Stenvar curiously, then asked, “What’s gotten into you?” The mercenary didn’t respond. “Talk to me, Sten.” Stenvar lifted the bottle to his lips again. Lonely-Gale let out a frustrated sigh. “Will you quit with the mead?” He reached over the table and ripped the drink from his hand, spilling the contents on Stenvar’s chest and lap. Stenvar swore loudly and stood up out of his chair. He leaned over the table, slamming his fist down with a bang.

 

“Want me to knock you on your ass?”

 

“I want you to tell me what’s on your mind,” the sea captain replied.

 

“The only thing on my mind right now is how much I want you to leave me the fuck alone,” Stenvar replied through gritted teeth.

 

“I’m not gonna pretend that we’re friends, you and I, but I can tell something’s on your mind and it's bothering you something bad. I’ve never seen you drink this heavily, and I can’t remember a time when you’ve blown up in anger like that.”

  

“Maybe you just don’t know me.”

 

“You spent months working for me on my ship, Stenvar! It may not have been a long time, but it was long enough for me to learn a little about you.” Stenvar looked away from him but said nothing. Lonely-Gale sighed and tried again, his voice taking on a softer tone. “Look, if something’s bothering you, you need to talk about it. I’ve seen plenty of men go mad keeping their feelings inside. I may not know you well, but I don’t want to see you like this, either.”

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Stenvar let out a heavy sigh and sat back down. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he admitted.

 

“Well it never hurts to try,” Lonely-Gale urged. Stenvar looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the groups of people celebrating together in various ways.

 

“I guess… I guess I’m lonely.”

 

Lonely-Gale let out a short burst of laughter. Stenvar glared at him, and he held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that l figured it would be something more complicated than loneliness.” The captain gestured with his hand, indicating the room full of people. “All of these people are here to celebrate _you_ , Stenvar. I’m sure they’d love to keep you company.”

 

Stenvar let out a bitter chuckle. “Funny. Most of them wouldn’t have given me the time of day yesterday.”

 

“That was before you killed a dragon, Stenvar! You’re a hero to them now.”

 

That word. Hero. Hearing it used to describe him struck a nerve within him. “I’m not a hero,” he muttered.

 

“Of course you are! You saved Kynesgrove, Windhelm, hell, all of Eastmarch hold!”

 

Stenvar looked him in the eyes. “I’m not a hero,” he repeated. “I was just a man doing the job he was paid to do. Nothing more.”

 

“But—” Stenvar leaned forward, interrupting Lonely-Gale.

 

“If that traveler hadn’t paid me to help, I would’ve been content to leave you all to burn.” His voice was cold and biting. He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. He didn’t mean it… did he? He slouched back in his chair, casting his gaze down toward his feet. “There are no heroes in this world.” His words were soft and sad, spoken more to himself than to the captain.

 

Lonely-Gale was silent for a moment. “Well,” he finally said. His tone less earnest than before, though it still carried a note of friendliness. “I’m sorry that you feel that way, Stenvar.” The mercenary didn’t respond, still looking down at his feet, lost in his thoughts. “I can tell you need some time to yourself right now. If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.” Lonely-Gale stood up from the table and walked back toward the center of the room, struggling to keep his balance as he went.

 

Alone again. Lonely-Gale had left the half-empty bottle of mead behind. Stenvar reached for it, hesitated, then dropped his hand to his side, leaving the bottle where it stood.

 

There was more to Stenvar’s mood than mere loneliness. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Cato ever since the Imperial had left him standing alone at the top of the hill. The idiot had a hastily stitched wound in his side and had barely survived the fight with Sahloknir, and yet he’d still insisted on pushing forward. And he’d done it because he’d felt genuinely responsible for the people Skyrim. He wasn’t even from this place, and yet Stenvar had heard it in his voice when he spoke. Dragonborn or not, the man had no ties to this land nor its people, yet he still put his own life at risk for them.

 

Stenvar may have slain the dragon, but Cato was the real hero.

 

 _There are no heroes!_ The words screamed in his head. _He’s just a naïve adventurer who’s going to wind up dead on the side of some road in the middle of nowhere._

 

“Okay, okay,” Stenvar heard a woman announce through her laughter. He looked over to see that it was the local bard, a Dunmer woman named Luaffyn. “At the request of a very, very drunk individual,” she laughed, “I’m going to perform a song I think all of you know, _The Dragonborn Comes_!” The people all crowded around the hearth in the center of the room where she stood, clapping as they went. Luaffyn strummed a few notes to tune her lute, and then began to sing.

 

“ _Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior’s heart;  I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes! With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art; Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes! It’s an end to the evil of all Skyrim’s foes; Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes! For the darkness has passed and the legend yet grows; You’ll know, you’ll know, the Dragonborn’s come!”_

 

As she finished the song, the crowd cheered and requested an encore. Watching the way they responded to the song, Stenvar felt realization bloom within him. He wasn’t a hero, it was true. He only helped people in the pursuit of his personal wealth. But Cato, he was different. He put the lives of others over his own, he helped those in need out of the goodness of his heart, and, most importantly, he gave people hope. He could see it blooming in the hearts of Windhelm’s citizens as they sang along to the story of the legendary hero, the one they believed would save them from the evils of the world and the darkness that had fallen over the land. Heroes might not have been real, but seeing this… well, perhaps Cato, the Dragonborn, was the closest thing there was to one.

 

Hope was something that Stenvar had lost sight of a long time ago, back when he was starving on the streets late one cold winter’s night. He’d become so obsessed with seeing the wide-reaching effects of his deeds that he’d failed to see how he’d affected the individual citizens of Skyrim. He’d never looked to see if he’d made them feel safer when they traveled or walked the streets at night. He’d failed to look for the fires of hope in their eyes. Instead he’d lamented how he’d failed to rid Skyrim of evil. He’d allowed his obsession to push him into giving up on the world.

 

One man can’t save the world. _You’d be surprised what one man can do._ Cato was one man, and yet his legend had given hope to everyone in Windhelm. Was he right? Could one man really save the world?

 

Was it possible that Stenvar could still change, leave behind the life of a sellsword and start working toward something bigger than himself? Or was he too old? He was sure that Cato would tell him that anyone could change, no matter their age.

 

_Cato._

 

Stenvar pushed his chair away from the table with a loud, sudden scraping that drew the attention of everyone in the room. He hurried down the stairs, ignoring whispered questions of what he was up to and leaving his half-full bottle of mead on the table gathering dust.

 

He rushed to his room and threw his few belongings into his travel pack. He donned his armor, strapped his sword to his back, slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and walked out of Candlehearth Hall and into the cold, leaving ten septims on the counter.

 

Stenvar didn’t know if Cato was a hero or if he was just some idealistic adventurer, but he did know one thing: that stubborn bastard was going to get himself killed traveling alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I have just been pumping these chapters out lately. Unfortunately, that won't always be the case. In the near future, I may have to go dark for a while, so if there is a long period of time in which the story goes without an update, don't despair! I am determined to see this through to the end, but I just may not have the time to write for a while.
> 
> On a less ominous note, here's a Fun Fact: despite it playing a role in Stenvar's development, I actually dislike all the bard songs in Skyrim. Not sure why, they just always bugged me. Could be because the Voice Actors weren't the best singers. Or there were only three songs that all used the same tune.   
>    
> I hope this chapter didn't feel like too much exposition or like Stenvar's development was rushed or forced. I'm still a bit new at this and am trying to work on my skills. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated, so long as it's constructive in nature of course. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this latest chapter


	6. Ghosts of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cato finds himself in familiar company, seeing for the first time what he lost as a result of his past actions. Elsewhere, Stenvar makes a chilling discovery while searching for his friend.

The horse’s hooves pounded the hard dirt beneath the layer of snow. Trees covered in white powder and hanging icicles passed by in a blur. The sun had set some time ago, and the forest on either side of the road was a sea of darkness beneath the pale light of the waxing gibbous moon. The sight was foreboding, but Stenvar was undaunted. He spurred his horse forward, rider and steed zooming down the empty road.

 

After leaving Candlehearth hall, he’d restocked his supply of arrows at the blacksmith and made his way to stables where he asked the stablemaster for his fastest horse. After attempting to haggle with the greedy bastard, Stenvar had managed to get the ridiculous price down to _only_ a thousand septims, draining the mercenary of the profits he’d made in his last three jobs. He’d cursed under his breath, but knew that finding Cato was more important than his finances. His purse considerably lighter, he’d set off down the road he’d remembered seeing Cato take. The Dragonborn had a couple hours head start on him, but Stenvar was determined to catch up to him, and wouldn’t stop until he did.

 

His eyes scanned the road as his horse galloped along. He was searching for any sign of the Imperial. He silently hoped that he’d simply come across him walking down the road, yet the longer he went without sighting him the more a creeping suspicion continued to grow that something was wrong. He cupped his hands, breathed into them, and vigorously rubbed them together, trying to fight off the cold that was numbing his hands.

 

He noticed something come into view a little farther ahead. It was a dark shape laid out in the middle of the road. He pulled back on the reigns of his horse. It whinnied loudly in response. “Steady, girl,” he said, his voice soft as he rubbed her head. The steed slowed to halt, and Stenvar hopped down onto the ground. As he approached the shape, he was able to make out the details of what he saw. It was a body, completely still, the snow around it stained a dark red with blood.

 

“Cato!” the Nord shouted, running over to the body and kneeling down next to it. A wave of relief washed over him as he got a closer look at the body. It wasn’t Cato. The figure was a female wood elf. But even with the knowledge that the corpse wasn’t Cato, an uneasy feeling hung over him. Something bad had happened here, he could feel it, and he intended to find out what.

 

He pulled a small torch out of his travel pack and lit it. In the flickering light, he inspected the body a bit closer. There was a deep, bloody wound in her head. From the looks of it, it seemed that someone had buried a blade or an axe into her skull. He’d seen plenty of similar wounds in his lifetime. She wore white furs, which looked to have come from a snowy sabre cat. She had a quiver of steel arrows strapped to her back, and she appeared not be carrying any travel pack or valuables. Odd. She clearly wasn’t a traveler, but what was with the furs? The only reason someone would be wearing white furs in a snowy forest was if they didn’t want to be seen. He looked around and saw a hunting bow on the ground not far from the body. A hunter, perhaps?

 

He noticed something on her arm. It was a mark, the image of a snarling wolf holding a dagger in its jaws. She was definitely not a hunter. While he’d never seen this particular image before, he’d seen plenty of similar marks to know that this elf was a bandit and her tattoo was the sigil of whatever bandit gang she belonged to.

 

It was then that Stenvar realized that his skin was prickling. There was electricity in the air, but he knew that there were no thunderstorms in the area. He'd have seen lightning by now. No, this electricity was the lingering effect of a spell. Stenvar smiled to himself. Putting the pieces together, it was all starting to make sense. He surmised that this elf was a bandit that had attacked Cato. From the lingering spell and the wound in the elf's head, he guessed that Cato had managed to fend off his attacker, even in his wounded state. Looks the ‘battlemage' had more of a warrior's spirit in him than he was willing to admit.

 

As Stenvar stood up to return to his horse, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It was small and rested atop the snow. His smile disappeared as he got closer to it. It was a travel pack. The mercenary bent down and opened it up. There was something inside that caught his eye. He pulled out a rounded grey-green bottle with a cork in the top. Liquid sloshed around inside. He uncorked the bottle and sniffed.

 

Cyrodiilic brandy.

 

This was Cato’s bag. But where was Cato? His beat faster and harder as he began to frantically look around for any sign of the Dragonborn. His eyes settled on a trail of footprints headed deeper into the woods on the side of the road. He counted at multiple sets of footprints all headed in the same direction, though they were grouped so close together that it was hard to tell how many people had gone that way. He looked back at the bandit. Given the mark on her arm, there was no way she’d been out here all alone. The elf’s cohorts must have shown themselves, before or after Cato offed her was irrelevant. He must have seen them and ran into the forest and they’d chased him.

 

He whistled for his horse to follow, and he followed the trail into the woods. For a while he walked in silence, hearing nothing but the sound of the crunching snow underfoot as his eyes scanned the tree line for any movement. Suddenly he stopped. He noticed that most of the footprints had started changing direction, each one swerving to avoid small mounds of snow. Something was off about the snow mounds. They were all spaced the same distance apart, and their placement was patterned. Whatever was buried beneath them wasn’t natural. He took an arrow from his quiver and cautiously plunged it into the snow mound. It hit something, and suddenly a set of metal teeth snapped shut, breaking the arrow in two. Startled, Stenvar jumped back, dropping the splintered shaft. Bear traps. Judging by the footprints, he concluded that the bandits had placed them here, hoping that some unsuspecting fool would run here trying to escape them. Cato had been that fool.

 

After tying his horse to a tree so that she wouldn’t follow, he carefully followed the footprints that danced around the hidden beartraps, careful to keep his footfalls as far from the mounds as possible, silently praying to the Divines that Cato had managed to avoid these traps.

 

Then he came across a sight that made his blood run cold. A single exposed bear trap, its teeth clamped shut. The metal trap and the surrounding snow were covered in scarlet blood. Beside the trap was a steel war axe, the axe head severed from the splintered wooden handle. He recognized it as the same axe that had sliced open the wing of the dragon at Kynesgrove. He knelt down beside the trap and ran a hand along the metal. _Shit._ The blood was nearly cold, there for two, maybe three hours.

 

There was something off about this. He knew how bandits usually operated. After Cato had gotten stuck in the trap, they'd have slit his throat, looted his valuables, and left the body here to rot. But looking around he couldn't find a trace of anybody, living or otherwise. It wasn't like bandits to dispose of or bury the bodies of their victims. They liked to make a show of their prey, a sign of strength and a warning to other bandit gangs and any mercenaries or soldiers that thought of attacking them.

 

He noticed droplets of blood in the snow forming a path that went deeper into the woods, in addition to more footprints. Taking the broken axe into consideration, he wondered if Cato had managed to get himself free of the trap. If so, then there was a chance that the Imperial was still alive, though he might not have much longer before he bled out.

 

Stenvar stood up. His brow furrowed as his eyes followed the trail until it disappeared into the shadows of the trees. He carefully made his way back to his horse, using fallen branches to set off the hidden traps as he went until he’d made a clear path. He untied his horse, whistling for her to follow. One way or another, he’d be leaving this forest with Cato. He just hoped he wouldn’t be carrying a corpse.

 

* * *

 

Every inch of Cato’s body was throbbing. His shoulder, his leg, his side, his skull. He couldn’t move his arms. They were spread wide, his wrists tied tightly to two separate wood posts. He struggled against the ropes, but the rough fiber seemed to get tighter with every movement. He’d tried burning through the ropes with a fire spell, but he’d been unable to conjure even the smallest ember. He was completely drained of magicka. Unless he drank a restorative potion or had enough time to regenerate his reserves naturally, he couldn’t create so much as a spark. He’d gone so far as to try using the fire breath Shout and risk burning off his arm in addition to the ropes, but even that had been of no avail; a rag had been inserted between his teeth and tied tightly behind his head. Any attempt at Shouting came out as nothing more than a garbled, muffled mess of grunts.

 

He was on his knees in the back of a cavernous cave dimly lit by torchlight. He could see a narrow tunnel on the other side of the cave, but he had no idea where it led; it curved out of view, leaving him staring at nothing but shadows. It could lead outside, or it lead into a larger network of tunnels and caves.

 

The bandits who grabbed him seemed to have set up an encampment within the cave, though from what he could tell this was only a temporary setup. It lacked furnishings like tables, chests, and weapons racks. There were, however, orange bedrolls scattered about the cave. From what he could see, there were thirteen in total, but he saw only nine bandits hanging about the cave he was in. The rest must have been outside. A few of the bandits occasionally threw glances his way. Some of them he recognized, but some of them he’d never seen before.

 

There. One of the bandits looked at him. She was a dark elf, looked to be in her early twenties. He didn't recognize her. In her expression, he saw curiosity, uncertainty, even a hint of intimidation. She whispered something to the Breton next to her. He was an older man with pale skin and countless scars running along his arms. Cato recognized him as Giragan, an old man skilled in spellcraft. He’d held Cato in high esteem, as he’d been the only other member of the Wolves of Oblivion who understood the old man’s fascination with the arcane arts. In fact, he'd even helped Cato master a few of the more difficult spells in his arsenal. Giragan sneered when his dark eyes met Cato's. Clearly, his opinion of Cato had deteriorated. 

 

"Not like that, you idiot!" Cato turned his head toward the sound of steel clattering to the ground. A pale green Argonian was training a younger Imperial man. Cato’s heart twisted in his chest. He knew that lizard. His name was Yelith, and he was one of the Wolves’ fiercest fighters. It was with Yelith that Cato had spent the majority of his time with the Wolves. The Argonian had been more than just a brother-in-arms; he’d been a friend.

 

The new recruit was having a difficult time learning the skill that Yelith was teaching him. It seemed it was starting to get under the Argonian’s scaly skin. Yelith’s eyes flicked over to where Cato was bound, and their eyes briefly met. Yelith’s mouth twisted into a snarl and the he tore his eyes away from Cato.

 

Cato was suddenly very aware of the position that he was in. These were once his people. They’d been his allies, his friends, and, some of them, his family. There was a time when he would have known all of their faces, when he would have been laughing and drinking and training alongside them. Now he was separate, a prisoner, a stranger. These were the same people he remembered, but to them he was someone altogether different.

 

Two figures walked into his line of sight and stopped a few feet away from him. He looked up at them. One of the figures he recognized as Sinris, a Khajiit with dark fur, wide eyes, and a problematic skooma addiction. Cato had always been against keeping the Khajiit around. He was an excellent healer, having been trained in medicine at one point in his mysterious life. But Cato had been quick to notice the cat’s sadistic streak. He often opted to use the most pain-inducing methods of patching up wounds as opposed to the painless application of healing potions. Even when they had no potions to spare, Sinris always seemed to find cauterizing a wound preferable to applying bandages and pressure.

 

The other figure was the steel armored Redguard woman who’d stomped on Cato’s face back in the woods. Her name was Trevia. Even now, he remembered their time together fondly. He’d taken her under his wing when she’d joined up with the Wolves. He saw her as a student he could put on the right path. Mostly, he’d hoped to prevent Livius, the leader of the Wolves of Oblivion, from corrupting her, as he’d done so many others.

 

Seeing Trevia’s glowering face now, it was clear to Cato that he’d failed. Only a year had passed since he’d last seen her, but she seemed to have aged a decade. Her features had hardened, and she’d gained more than a few scars on her face and arms. She was far from the fresh-faced young woman Cato had met six years ago.

 

Trevia knelt down in front of Cato while Sinris hung back, hungrily eyeing the Dragonborn. “You’re awake,” she began. “I was afraid I’d knocked you into a coma back there. It would’ve made transporting you easier, but then we couldn’t have this little reunion.” Cato tried to respond, but all that came from his mouth were muffled grunts. Trevia’s mouth twisted into a scornful smile. “I wish you didn’t need the gag. I’d love nothing more than to hear you beg and plead for me to let you go like the worm you are. But the boys tell me you lit one of them on fire with nothing but your voice. I have to wonder: where _did_ you learn that?” Cato was silent. Trevia merely shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. No magic words can save you now.” Cato strained against his bindings.

 

“Sinris thinks that ropes need tightening,” the Khajiit chimed in.

 

Trevia held up a hand. “Leave him, cat,” she ordered. Sinris appeared disappointed but obeyed nonetheless. Trevia locked eyes with Cato. She was silent. He stared back at her, but her eyes were stone walls; it was impossible to see what was going on behind them. “The day after you ran,” she began, “Imperial soldiers attacked our camp. Do you know how many of our people we lost that day because of you?” Cato shook his head.

 

There was a sudden flash of red-hot anger in her eyes. “Thirty-one,” she snapped. She socked him hard across the jaw with a gauntleted hand. Red blood streamed from the cut she’d opened up across his lip. The sight made Sinris’ eyes go wide with glee and he hungrily licked his lips. Cato lifted his head back up to look at Trevia.

 

“We know it was you who told them where we were,” she shouted. She socked him again, harder this time. After the first two blows, something within her snapped. She began wailing on Cato, one blow after another, screaming with every hit. The other bandits looked over at the commotion. No one made any moves to stop her. In fact, one of them even cheered her on.

 

“Give that traitor what he deserves!” Giragan shouted. The rest of the bandits joined in, and the cave was filled with their echoing jeers. Only one bandit remained silent. Yelith, the Argonian, hung back from the rest of the gang. His arms were crossed and his expression was unreadable. For a moment, his eyes met Cato’s, a moment cut short by Trevia’s next blow. When he looked back up, Yelith was gone.

 

Cato wasn’t sure how long the beating when on for. He felt warm blood running down his face. It streamed from his nose, his lips, and the multitudes of cuts on his face. It dripped off of his chin and pooled on the floor beneath him, soaking his knees. His left eye had started to swell, and he could feel his right eye throbbing. The dirty taste of the rag mixed with the coppery tang of blood, creating a repulsive cocktail in his mouth.

 

After what seemed like hours, Trevia finally stopped. Cato's entire body sagged, held up only by his bound hands. He was barely holding on to consciousness. His ears rang, his vision was blurry. The only thing he could feel was numbing pain. Trevia huffed, her chest heaving with each breath. She knelt down once more. She gripped Cato tightly by the hair and tilted his head up so that he looked her in the eyes. He didn’t have to see himself to know that he was a pathetic sight to behold.

 

“It’s a long way back to Cyrodiil,” she hissed. “Every day, I am going to make you beg for death. You will pay for every life that your betrayal cost us. And by the time Livius is through with you, you’ll wish he’d left you to die in the gutter all those years ago.” Cato didn’t have the strength to reply. She let go of his head and it hung limply. Trevia stood up, using a rag to wipe Cato’s blood off of her gauntlets. She turned to Sinris. “Fix him up,” she ordered. “I don’t want him bleeding out on us.”

 

“Of course,” Sinris purred, barely able to contain his excitement. Trevia left them, the sound of her footsteps echoing off the cave walls. Sinris knelt down in front of Cato. He grabbed Cato’s face and turned it, examining his injuries, the Khajiit’s course fur rubbing against the Imperial's skin. He dropped Cato's face and searched the rest of his body. He ran a cold claw over Cato's scar on his chest. Cato winced, but didn't make a sound. Sinris' eyes lingered on the scar, but he said nothing of it and moved on with his examination of Cato's body. When he reached Cato's mangled leg, he pressed down on it hard, eliciting a grunt of pain from Cato. Sinris cackled, a crazed sound that sent chills down Cato's spine. 

 

Without warning, Sinris drew a knife and began to cut through Cato’s leather cuirass, peeling the leather away and exposing Cato’s bare torso to the cold cave air.

 

“What is this,” the Khajiit wondered aloud. He ran his hand over Cato’s side, tenderly tugging at each individual stitch with his claws, threatening to reopen the wound. He bared his teeth in a wide, wolfish grin. “Sinris has much to work with.” His words dripped with sick excitement. He uncorked a small purple-green vial and chugged its contents, licking the edges of the vial’s lip. He smacked his lips and sighed. Cato could smell the skooma on his breath. Sinris grabbed a torch from the wall. In one swift movement, he sliced through Cato’s stitches. Cato inhaled sharply as he felt the wound start to bleed. Sinris then held the knife’s blade to the torch’s flickering flame until it glowed red. The Khajiit leaned in close to Cato’s face and whispered.

 

“Scream loud, yes?”

 

Then he pressed the flat edge of the glowing blade onto the wound. Despite the gag, everyone in the cave could hear Cato’s screams.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again readers! I want to follow up an unfortunate announcement I made previously. Starting next week, I will have significantly less time to write. This past month I am so grateful to have had the time to publish what I hope will be 7 chapters (gonna try to get that one out by the weekend). Unfortunately, reality is pulling on my leash and I don't know when I will have time to write and edit and post these chapters. I hope you all understand, and please know that I am NOT abandoning this story. I will see it to its conclusion, even if that means we won't get there until next year (hopefully it doesn't take THAT long). Thank you all for your continued readership (recently passed 100 views! Holy shit thanks!) and I'll catch you all on the flip side!


	7. Desperate Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected ally offers Cato a chance at escaping with his life, but the Wolves of Oblivion won't allow their prey to slip away so easily. Some of them desire vengeance, and won't soon forget a traitor's sins...

Cato wasn’t sure how much longer he would last. He screamed through the gag as Sinris seared his flesh with the glowing knife. Mercifully, the burning blade was lifted from his skin again. He knew it would only be momentary, but he’d take any reprieve he could get. Sweat rolled down his face. It mixed with his blood and rolled down his face, leaving behind scarlet trails on his skin. The drops rolled down his cheeks, his chin, and his nose and dripped onto the floor. He beard was soaked with sweat and blood and his damp hair clung to his forehead.

 

Sinris pressed the flat edge of his knife onto the skin of Cato’s mangled leg once more, drawing another strained scream from the depths of his throat. Giragan, now standing just behind Sinris, was enjoying every moment of Cato’s torture. The edges of his vision darkened and he felt himself slowly losing consciousness. His head began to droop. Sinris clicked his tongue and pulled the knife away.

 

“No, no, no, no,” he crooned menacingly. He caressed the side of Cato’s battered face. “You cannot sleep yet, Cato. Sinris is not finished with you.”

 

“That’s enough,” a raspy voice called out. Cato, Giragan, and Sinris all looked to where the voice had come from. Yelith, the Argonian, emerged from the shadows of the tunnel in the back of the cave. Sinris’ face twisted into a look of disgust when he saw Yelith walking toward them.

 

Giragan placed a hand on Yelith’s chest. He was a full head taller than the Argonian and built like a mountain. “The Khajiit said he wasn't finished,” he growled. "So why don't you tuck your tail between your legs and piss off."

 

“I’ve got orders from the boss _,_ ” Yelith replied in a challenging tone. “So unless you’re willing to repeat that to _her_ , you’ll get out of my way, Giragan.” Reluctantly, the Breton stepped aside.

 

“What do you want, lizard?” Sinris hissed. He made sure to emphasize ‘lizard.’ Yelith bristled at the word, but let it slide.

 

“Trevia needs you,” Yelith replied.

 

“Tell her to wait. Sinris is not finished treating Cato.”

 

Yelith walked over and took a closer look at Cato. “That’s horse shit and you know it, cat.” Sinris growled upon hearing the word ‘cat’ come from Yelith’s mouth. “His wounds are sealed. You’re done here. Besides, you know how much Trevia hates being made to wait.”

 

Sinris mumbled something under his breath and looked into Cato’s eyes. “Our time together must end, for now. Sinris looks forward to treating you again.” Cato lacked the energy to attempt a reply. Sinris cackled as he stood up and walked toward the tunnel with Giragan in tow. Yelith watched them over his shoulder. When he was certain they were gone, he squatted down in front of Cato. He examined him for a moment before speaking.

 

“They really did a number on you,” he muttered. “Not sure whether they took things too far or if you deserved everything they gave you. It’s probably somewhere in the middle.” Cato could barely even lift his head up to look Yelith in his eyes. His reptilian eyes were cold and stared back at Cato with an expression somewhere between pity and disgust.

 

“I expected you to look, I don’t know, different somehow,” the Arognian continued after a moment. “Yet here you are, looking exactly like the man I once called friend. But you aren’t that man anymore, are you? You stopped being the Cato I knew the moment you sold the Wolves out to the Empire. The Cato I knew would have never traded the lives of the people who trusted him just to get back at one man.” He paused a moment. “Livius is still alive. I figured you already knew that, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. Thirty-one Wolves killed, and yet the only man you actually wanted dead survived. Wonder which of the Divines you pissed off for that to happen. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was all Nine.”

 

The whole time Yelith talked, Cato was looking at him in anticipation of what would happen next. He had an idea of what it was. It was what everyone else wanted: to make him pay. Yelith had been his closest friend. His betrayal must have hit him the hardest, and now he had Cato right where he wanted, unable to fight back or even say a word in defense of his actions. Any moment now, Yelith was going to cut loose and beat him to a bloody pulp.

 

To his surprise, Yelith sighed and shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that, Cato. I ain’t here to hurt you.” He looked over his shoulder. When he saw no one was there, he leaned in close and whispered, “I’m setting you free.” Cato looked at him in confusion. Yelith muttered something in frustration. “This is ridiculous. Give me a second.” He reached for Cato’s gag but stopped himself. He looked at Cato. “I need a guarantee that you won’t roast me alive like you did Hodgar back in the forest.” Cato looked at him skeptically. Yelith rolled his eyes. “Look, you’re safe with me. If I was going to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. Besides, why in Oblivion would I give you the chance to fight back by ungagging you?”

 

Reluctantly, Cato nodded, a promise that he wouldn’t use his Voice. Satisfied, Yelith reached forward and untied the bloody rag. He ripped it out of Cato’s mouth and let it fall to the floor. Cato’s throat burned with pain and his mouth was a desert. He looked up at Yelith.

 

“Water,” he said. His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. The Argonian nodded and took a flask from the satchel that was slung across his chest. He held it up Cato’s lips and tipped it up. The second the bitter liquid hit Cato’s tongue, he knew it wasn’t water. He spat it out.

 

“Hey, stop that!” Yelith hissed.

 

“What is this?” Cato asked.

 

“A potion I brewed. It’s a healing potion, but it should also restore your magicka. I know the taste is overwhelming, but you have to drink it if you want to have any chance at escaping.”

 

None of this made any sense to Cato. “Why are you helping me? Why not just leave me here for the others?” Yelith regarded him for a brief moment before answering.

 

“There was a time I was proud to call you my friend. That still means something to me, even if it doesn’t to you. Don’t get the wrong idea,” he added. “This is the last thing I will ever do for you. After this, I don’t want to see your face again.”

 

“What about you?” Cato asked. “The Wolves will kill you when they find out you helped me.”

 

“Me? I’m leaving,” he answered matter-of-factly. “The Wolves of Oblivion mutated into something dark after you left. Livius is out for blood. He insists we leave no survivors, even if they hand over their riches without a fight. Trevia is right there with him, never questioning his orders. Giragan’s been experimenting with dark magic, taking some of our victims prisoner so he can use them in blood rituals. And Sinris… he’s always been unhinged, but when you were around they kept him on a tight leash. These days the bastard has free reign to do whatever he pleases to whomever he wants.”

 

“I had no idea things were that bad,” Cato whispered.

 

“It is what it is. Nothing anyone can do about it now. I won’t pretend I’m some sort of saint, but I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”

 

“Do you have a plan to get us out of here?”

 

“There’s no ‘us.’  Once you drink the potion, I’m making my move. Wait an hour, and then make your escape.

 

“I have no idea how to get out of here.”

 

“There’s not much to this cave system. Just follow the tunnel and you’ll come to a cavern that leads outside. There’re a couple branching tunnels that lead to more caves. The others will probably be in them, so your best bet is to just stick to the main tunnel. Keep to the shadows and you should be able to slip out unnoticed.”

 

“Are you going to cut me free?”

 

“No. Too risky. If anyone shows up before I’m gone and sees you free, I’m screwed. But that’s why I mixed in the magicka restoration to the potion. After an hour, conjure up a flame to burn your way out of the ropes.”

 

Cato hated the idea of staying tied up for another hour, but he reluctantly agreed. It was his best chance of escaping. Yelith tipped back the flask again and Cato choked down the bitter potion. In an instant, he could feel some of his strength returning, feel the burning in his side and leg start to subside, feel the cuts on his face knit back together and the swelling go down. He also felt a faint warmth inside of him as his magicka returned, ready to be called upon to conjure up a spell.

 

“Thank you, Yelith,” he said.

 

“Don’t thank me,” the Argonian brusquely replied. He stood up and started to walk away.

 

“Wait!” Yelith stopped for a moment and looked back over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Cato continued. “I know it won’t change the fact that I betrayed you and it won’t bring back the ones who died, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For everything.”

 

Yelith looked away, turning his gaze back toward the tunnel. “Just make it out of this alive,” he said. Then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Cato all alone.

 

* * *

 

Cato sat in silence for what he estimated to be an hour. As he waited for the time to pass, his mind wandered. He wondered where Yelith planned on going once he got away from the Wolves. It was unlikely that he would return to Cyrodiil, to the heart of the Wolves’ territory. Would he remain in Skyrim and try to start over, as Cato had tried to do? Or would he attempt to journey back to Black Marsh, the native home of the Argonians? Whatever he chose to do, Cato knew it was unlikely he’d ever see his old friend again.

 

He considered his own situation. He doubted the Wolves would leave him alone once he’d escaped. They weren’t going to give up until they dragged him back to Livius, and sooner or later they’d track him down again. He’d make sure he was ready for them when they found him. He had no intention of being tied up like this again.

 

Deciding that he’d waited long enough, Cato conjured two small embers in his hands. The Wolves had only bound his at the wrists. Though he couldn’t move his arms, he could rotate his hands around his wrists. He angled his hands in a such a way that the embers in his hands licked the ropes. He flinched with he felt the embers singe his skin, but he held his hands as steady as he could. Finally, the ropes caught fire. The flames in his hands disappeared. The ropes burned against his hands, but he could feel them loosening as the fibers burned away. He tugged his hands against the weakening ropes until, finally, he was free.

 

He lurched forward, landing on his face on the cold stone floor. He picked himself up, shakily rising to his feet. Though his knees felt weak, he had no time to steady himself; it was now or never. He scoured the cave he was in, looking for anything that he could use to help him get out of here, preferably a weapon. He’d never been the best at sneaking around, so he decided he should have some means of defending himself should he be spotted. Unfortunately, all he was able to find was an old iron dagger left lying by someone’s bedroll. Sighing, he stooped down and picked it up. The blade was laughably small and dull, but it was better than nothing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

 

Taking a deep breath, he entered the shadows of the tunnel. He kept himself low to the ground and moved slowly, trying his best to keep his footfalls as soft as possible. There was the occasional torch on the tunnel wall providing dim light. Cato felt his muscles tense each time he passed by a torch, afraid that someone would walk by at the moment and notice him in the light. Luckily, he passed not a single soul as he snuck through the tunnel.

 

He passed by the branching tunnels that Yelith had mentioned. Sure enough, he could hear bits and pieces of conversations coming from down them, and torchlight bled out into the main tunnel. He couldn’t make out what any of the voices were saying, but he didn’t care to find out. He wanted to get out of the damn cave as soon as possible.

 

Finally, he reached a second cave. It was cavernous, with dark green moss growing on the walls and the ground. Up a short slope, there was a break in the wall where pale moonlight flooded into the cave. There was a cold draft that caused Cato to shiver. He silently cursed Sinris for cutting off his cuirass as his bare torso felt a blast of cold air from outside. Once outside he’d have to hurry up and find something to cover up his body.

 

He quickly surveyed the room, and, to his relief, it was empty. Now was his chance. He ran for the exit, feeling his spirits rise with each step that brought him closer to freedom.

 

A missile of ice shot between his legs, sinking into the ground a few inches from him. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 

“Don’t fucking move,” threatened a voice behind him. Cato slowly turned around and saw Giragan standing at the mouth of the tunnel, a small flurry of ice surrounding his raised left hand.

 

“Let me go, Giragan,” Cato urged, his words and tone measured.

 

“Like hell I will,” the Breton growled. His voice was getting louder. “How the fuck did you get out?” Cato could feel himself start to sweat. If Giragan kept talking, the others would hear them and come running. But if he tried to run, Giragan would have a clean shot to put an icicle through his spine. He needed to try and defuse the situation before it was too late.

 

“Giragan, listen to me,” he started, keeping his tone as neutral as he could. In his experience, Giragan tended to blow up if he even thought someone was talking down to him. “It’s no secret that the Wolves have changed since I left. I’ve heard you guys don’t leave survivors anymore.”

 

“Damn right we don’t,” Giragan replied, keeping his hand raised and pointed at Cato. “No survivors sends a message about what happens when people cross us.”

 

“But murder?”

 

“Yes, murder! It’s about time people learned to fear the Wolves of Oblivion.”

 

“I know you’ve been practicing dark magic, Giragan. It’s—”

 

“Shut your fucking mouth, traitor!” Cato cursed silently. He’d pushed too hard. “You don’t know a damn thing about me, and it’s clear I didn’t know anything about you. You talk about the Wolves being murders? My son is dead because of you! The dark magic is my only way of bringing him back to me!” That’s what this was about. Cato realized that here was no way he was going to talk him down.

 

“I didn’t know—”

 

“Enough! I’m not letting you out of this cave alive. Only reason I haven’t called the others yet is because I won’t let anyone take my vengeance from me.”

 

Cato readied himself. “I don’t want to fight you, Giragan.”

 

“Oh, but I’ve been waiting a long time to kill you.” Without warning, he hurled another ice missile at Cato. Cato managed to scramble out of the way just in time. Just as he got to his feet, a fireball came screaming at his face. He barely had time to throw up a ward. The fireball crashed into the rippling, transparent shield. The force pushed Cato back a few steps. Another fireball crashed into the ward, then another, and another. Cato’s arms shook with each impact. Cracks were forming in his ward.

 

“Come on, coward!” Giragan taunted. “Fight back!” An ice missile crashed into the ward. It pierced the magic shield and came to a stop inches from Cato’s eye. Cato knew he needed to act. Keeping the ward up was eating away at his magicka. He dropped the ward and dove to the side, throwing a fireball of his own at Giragan. The Breton easily deflected it with his own ward. He laughed. “Is that all you got?”

 

“Fus Ro Dah!” Cato Shouted. The air between them as rippled as the force sailed across the cavern and crashed into Giragan’s ward. The shield shattered and the Breton flew backwards and slammed into the wall. He fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.

 

“Never taught you that one,” he remarked. “Guess you have a trick or two up your sleeve after all. Good. I wanted a challenge.” He jumped to his feet. The glowing ball in his hand flickered from a fiery orange to a pulsing violet. He raised his hand and a steady stream of lightning connected with Cato’s chest, sending electricity through his body.

 

Cato screamed as the electricity coursed through him, burning him from the inside out and sapping his magicka. He struggled to raise his hand, preparing a spell. He had to do act fast. He saw a loose stone behind Giragan. He focused on the stone and, using the telekinesis spell Giragan had taught him, pulled the stone toward him. It collided with Giragan’s skull, disorienting him and interrupting his spell. Giragan’s hand shot to the spot on his skull where the stone had impacted. It came away bloody. He laughed. “Now you’re fighting dirty.”

 

Just then they heard footsteps running toward them. They both looked over to the tunnel to see Trevia, Sinris, and the other Wolves emerge, weapons at the ready.

 

“Giragan!” Trevia shouted. “What in Oblivion is going on here?”

 

“This is my fight, Trevia! Stay out of it!”

 

He raised both hands and jets of flames shot from both of them. The flames went wide on either side of Cato, missing him entirely. Where the flames touched, however, a wall of flames errupted, boxing Cato into a narrow corridor with Giragan and keeping the others out. The Breton smirked and flicked his hands. Shimmering, translucent purple swords appeared in his hands.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cato muttered.

 

“Tell me, kid,” Giragan called out. “You ever master this one?” Cato said nothing. “I’ll take that as a no. Allow me to give you a demonstration!” He charged at Cato, his spectral blades raised. Cato readied his hands, preparing a fireball spell in one hand and a lighting rune in the other. He didn’t have a shield or weapon with which to deflect Giragan’s blows, so he’d have to stay on his toes and dodge.

 

Cato was expecting the first slice. As it sailed toward him in a downward arc, he easily sidestepped it, preparing to blast Giragan with a fireball. But he hadn’t been expecting the second one. The spectral blade in Giragan’s left hand slashed across Cato’s abdomen. He fell backwards. The cut was shallow and small, but the wound still erupted in pain. Those blades might’ve been spectral, but they cut like real steel.

 

An idea popped in Cato’s head. He shuffled backwards on his hands as Giragan tried to stab into him, narrowly avoiding the thrust. Just before he rose to his feet, the ground glowed purple where his left hand had been. He backpedaled a bit, putting the rune between himself and Giragan. His back hit the wall.

 

“Nowhere for you to run now!” Giragan shouted. He ran forward – and his foot fell right into the center of the glowing rune. There was a bright flash and a bolt of lightning struck his body. He hit the ground with a thud, the spectral blades turning to mist. Now was Cato’s chance. He ran forward, hurling a fireball at Giragan and drawing the iron dagger from his belt. Giragan rolled out of the way of the fireball. Cato was upon him. He brought the dagger down – only for Giragan to roll out of the way at the last second. He brought his foot up and kicked Cato in the chest. He flew backwards and landed on his back. The dagger slipped from his hands. Before he had time to react, Giragan was on top of him, his hands closing around Cato’s neck. He squeezed tight, and Cato felt his throat close. He struggled for air.

 

“I’ve had enough of this,” growled Giragan. Cato gripped Giragan’s hands with one hand, attempting to pry loose the Breton’s vise-like grip. With his other hand, he reached up, trying to gouge Giragan’s eyes. Giragan released one of his hands and pinned Cato’s arm to the ground. Even with one hand, Giragan’s grip was like steel. The edges of Cato’s vision darkened.

 

Cato’s eyes flicked to the side. There. The dagger. He released the hand that was trying in vain to pry Giragan from him and desperately reached out for the knife. He almost had it. Just a little further…

 

“Do not kill him!” Trevia shouted. The walls of fire had started to die down. Though she couldn’t cross over them, she could now see what was going on. “Livius needs him alive.”

 

“To Oblivion with Livius!” Giragan snapped back. “This is for my son!” He turned his attention back to Cato. Then he noticed Cato’s arm. “What are you—”

 

It was too late. Cato’s hand closed around the dagger’s hilt and he stabbed the blade into Giragan’s neck. Giragan gurgled, blood dripping from the wound in his neck. Cato stabbed him again, and again, until finally Giragan’s hand loosened from Cato’s neck and he fell over. Blood bubbled at his lips as he desperately grasped at his neck to stop the bleeding. And then he fell silent and still, his eyes glassy as they stared into the distance.

 

Gasping for air, Cato stood up, rubbing his hand on his neck. He could feel it starting to bruise. Then a fist collided with his skull, knocking him back to the ground.

 

“You bastard!” Trevia screamed. Cato tried to get up only to be kicked back down onto his back. She planted a foot on his chest, pushing down until Cato feared she was going to break his ribs. “How did you even escape?”

 

“Sinris has noticed the lizard is missing,” Sinris observed.

 

“Yelith? I knew that bastard couldn’t be trusted. Sinris, find Yelith and skin him alive.”

 

“Of course,” Sinris agreed, his voice giddy. He practically bounded out of the cave, eager to finally put Yelith in his place.

 

“As for you,” Trevia growled, turning back to Cato. She reached down and gripped his hair, pulling him up into a kneeling position. “You’re going to pay for killing Giragan.” She socked him in the jaw. She continued to hold him up by the hair, and each blow made Cato fear she would rip his hair from his head. “You weren’t content to have the Empire kill your friends, were you? You had to take their lives yourself, drench your hands in their blood!” She didn’t hold back. Something inside her had snapped. Cato feared she was going to kill him this time, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. With each blow, more and more of his strength slipped away until he was nothing more than a ragdoll in her hands. He could feel the darkness closing in. Each punch brought him closer to the end. He could hear the other Wolves cheering her on.

 

“Hey!” a voice called out. It echoed throughout the cave. Silence fell over the Wolves, and Trevia stopped her fist. They all looked up to see who had spoken. “I’m going to give you one chance. Let him go, and I might consider letting you bastards leave Skyrim alive.”

 

Trevia released Cato and he crumpled to the ground. He managed to lift his head up just enough to see the newcomer. His heart leapt in his chest. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

 

Stenvar stood in the mouth of the cave, his iron greatsword gripped loosely in his right hand. Trevia drew her ebony sword from its sheath at her side.

 

“You must have a death wish, marching in here thinking you can give _me_ orders,” she said, her voice menacing.

 

Stenvar shrugged. “You’re not the first to tell me that. You won’t be the last, either.”

 

“I’d ask who you are or why you care so much about this sack of shit on the ground,” Trevia spat, gesturing toward Cato, “but it won’t matter. You’ll be dead soon regardless.”

 

“If I had a septim for every bandit who told me that, I’d be living in a palace to rival the High King’s. Er, late High King.”

 

“You’re a cocky little shit.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Now I won’t tell you again. Let Cato go, and I won’t kill you.”

 

“I’ve got a better idea: I’ll kill you nice and slow and have him watch as a do it.” She flicked her head, and the Wolves behind her ran towards Stenvar, weapons held high.

 

Stenvar rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and readied his sword in both hands. “Guess we’re doing this the fun way.”

 

The first thug to reach him swung her sword in a downward arc. He easily sidestepped it and cut his blade across her body. She fell in an instant. Another of the Wolves tried swiping at Stenvar’s neck with a battleaxe from behind. Stenvar ducked and stabbed his sword up into the man’s head. He pulled out his bloodied blade and the man’s body fell limply to the ground. A dark elf slammed her mace into Stenvar’s back. His steel armor absorbed the blow. He looked at her with a wolfish grin. “Should have aimed for the head.” Two quick slashed of the mercenary’s greatsword and the elf fell to the ground.

 

Cato watched in awe as Stenvar fought. For a man his size, he seemed to dance around the battlefield as though his heavy armor weighed nothing, swinging his sword with the speed of a sprinting sabre cat. He appeared superhuman in the way he was able to anticipate his enemies’ strikes and counter them with his own. Cato had never seen a more capable fighter in his life. He was outnumbered, yet it seemed the Wolves were the ones at a disadvantage. Even if Cato had wanted to look away from the carnage, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Stenvar.

 

Within no time, the Wolves lay dead on the floor with Stenvar standing over them. His face and armor were smeared with blood and his chest rose and fell heavily with each breath. His eyes met Cato’s. He smiled.

 

A fist collided with Stenvar’s face while he was distracted. He stumbled a few steps, and looked up to see Trevia. She was shaking with rage. “You whoreson,” she growled. “You killed my men.”

 

“To be fair,” Stenvar countered, “they didn’t put up much of a fight.”

 

She roared as she rushed Stenvar, slashing her sword multiple times in quick succession. Stenvar barely reacted in time to block each slash, the force of her blows pushing him back until he was up against the wall. He ducked to the side as she stabbed her blade where his abdomen had been. He swung his blade at her, but she blocked it with her own. Sparks flew as they went back and forth, steel clashing with ebony as neither combatant was able to break through the other’s defenses.

 

Until Stenvar made a mistake. Trevia’s blow pushed him back a step. His foot landed on a loose stone and, for a moment, he lost his footing. A moment was all she needed. With pinpoint accuracy, she slashed her sword at his right shoulder a the exact spot where his armor was weakest. Stenvar cried out in pain as his dominant arm was made useless. He held on to his sword with his left hand, but without both hands he couldn’t hope to swing his sword fast enough to meet Trevia’s blade. She smashed the metal hilt of her blade into Stenvar’s face. There was a crunch and blood streamed from his nose. She kicked him hard in the chest and he stumbled backwards. He tripped over the body of one of the dead bandits and fell to the floor. In an instant she was on him, one hand clasped tightly around his neck. With her other hand she raised her blade, ready to thrust it into his face.

 

“You made a fatal mistake coming here,” she snarled.

 

Watching all of this unfold, Cato felt a fire burn in his heart. No! He wasn’t going to stand idly by and watch Stenvar die trying to save him. Despite the battered and beaten state of his body, Cato dug down deep and mustered what little energy he could, spurred on by the sight of his friend in danger. He grunted as he managed to push himself onto his feet. He ran forward on shaky feet.

 

“Get off of him!” he shouted. Trevia looked over to see him just as his body collided with hers, tackling her to the ground. The ebony sword slipped from her grip and clattered across the ground. Screaming in furry, Trevia threw an elbow that smashed into Cato’s forehead, leaving him dazed as his vision swam. She pushed him off of her and rose to her feet. She kicked him hard in the ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

 

“You’ll get yours soon enough,” she growled. She turned her attention to Stenvar. He had managed to get to his feet. His dark blonde beard was streaked with his own blood. She stalked over to him and threw a punch. The mercenary managed to block it, but her left hook caught him in the jaw. His defense down, she lunged for his neck, gripping it tight in both hands. Stenvar desperately clawed at her, trying to get her off, but nothing could shake her. “Just die already!”

 

Cato had no energy left. Trevia was unstoppable. There was nothing he could do. Stenvar was going to die and he would be at Trevia’s mercy as she dragged him back to Cyrodiil, most likely after putting him into a coma. His aching body screamed for him to stay down, to stop fighting and just surrender.

 

He heard Stenvar’s desperate gasps as Trevia slowly choked the life out of him. He gritted his teeth. Surrendering wasn’t an option. His eyes quickly darted around the cave, looking for anything he could use.

 

The ebony sword. It was just out of his reach, glinting in the torchlight. He crawled frantically across the floor, his movements sluggish. He lacked the energy to muster a Shout, and his mackica was once more completely drained after his fight with Giragan. He was running on fumes now, fumes that were nearly gone. But he needed to keep pushing. He reached for the sword. He wrapped his hand around it as tight as he could and, fighting to stay conscious, rose to his feet. His head was pounding, his breaths were ragged, his knees were weak. Despite all of this, he limped his way to Trevia. Stenvar’s face was deathly pale. The movements of his arms as he tried in vain to free himself from the Redgaurd’s grip were slowing down. His eyes rolled back in his head.

 

Without a word, Cato thrust the ebony blade forward and it punched through Trevia’s body. She gasped and let go of Stenvar. The Nord coughed violently as his body slumped to the floor. Trevia shakily turned around. Her eyes met Cato’s. She mouthed something, but no sound came from her mouth. Then the light faded from her eyes and her body fell to the ground. Cato looked over. He found himself smiling, relieved to see Stenvar was now back on his feet.

 

Stenvar smiled back. Then his smiled morphed into a look of concern. Cato hadn’t noticed he was falling until Stenvar caught him just in time to keep his head from hitting the ground. He looked up to see the Nord’s face ringed by torchlight. He felt Stenvar’s sturdy, muscular arms wrap around his body. He wanted to reach up and touch the Nord’s face, but he couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t move anything. Stenvar said something, but Cato didn’t hear it.

 

Cato felt himself falling again, Stenvar and the cave drifting further away down a dark tunnel until all he could see was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Glad I finally got this chapter finished. It was a very, very hard one to write. It went through so many revisions, I changed narrative POV at least a dozen times, and the big battle also went through many different phases. But, finally, it is finished and it is here! Sorry for the length, but I didn't want to drag this plot thread on for any more chapters than I needed to.
> 
> I also took some time to plan ahead for the next two chapters or so, so the wait should not be as long next time if I can help it. Additionally, I have planned a couple of short Interludes. What are those, you may ask? Well, let's just say you haven't seen the last of certain characters...
> 
> Thanks again for the continued support and I hope you enjoyed this latest (very long) chapter. Many drafts gave their lives so I could get this to you. Lemme know what y'all think about the story so far in the comments!


	8. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally reunited, Stenvar waits anxiously as Cato heals from his injuries.

Stenvar’s legs were absolutely exhausted, but he doubted that the old bastards in High Hrothgar would even pretend to care. He couldn’t complain too much, though. They’d saved Cato life, and in the time that he and Cato had been there, the Greybeards hadn’t forced Stenvar to rent out a room in Ivarstead’s inn at the foot of the mountain. So, he ignored his exhaustion and continued to climb the 7,000 Steps for what felt like the 7,000th time.

 

In time, he came upon a magnificent structure near the top of the mountain. It was built of dark grey stone, the stark walls standing out against the white snow on the mountainside. A short set of stairs led up to a square landing. On the landing was a large wooden chest and scattered on the floor were various items left as offerings and gifts to the monks by the various pilgrims who visited the monastery on spiritual journeys. On either side of the landing was another set of stairs that curled around the monastery’s main tower and led to a stone door. Both doors on the left and right of the tower were beneath a shallow archway, each archway adorned with an intricate stone carving that stretched from the top of the archway to beyond the top of the wall. As fed up as he was with walking up the mountain again, Stenvar had to admit that it was still a breathtaking sight to see such a building this far up the mountain.

 

He made his way up the stairs to one of the doors. He shoved open the heavy stone door without bothering to knock; the sack he was carrying was becoming heavy after his trip and he was eager to dump it into the hands of the first monk he saw.

 

The stone door swung shut with a heavy bang that echoed throughout the monastery. Stenvar walked away from the door and into the main chamber of High Hrothgar, a large square room that was bare, save for the large brazier near the center of the room that currently held a bright, glowing flame. A short set of stairs on either side of the room connected the front of the chamber to the raised back half. On the far wall in the back of the room was a set of doors leading to an outdoor courtyard. There were faded and slightly tattered blue and gold banners hanging on the tall walls. There was text written on the banners, but it was in a strange language that Stenvar had never seen before. At least, that’s what he’d thought at first, but the more he looked at the strange symbols, the more he felt like he’d seen similar etchings somewhere else once before.

 

Stenvar walked to the center of the chamber and, his arms finally giving in to exhaustion, dropped the sack on the ground. It hit the ground with a dull thud. Stenvar stretched his aching arms and shoulders, thankful that he could stop lugging around the assorted fruits, vegetables, cured meats, and other essentials on his back. “I’m back,” he called out to no one in particular. His voice echoed off the stone walls. He wasn’t expecting a response. There were four monks currently living in the monastery, but only one of them ever spoke to him. He took offense to this at first, believing that their silence was some form of judgment. But Arngeir, the only monk that spoke and the man Stenvar assumed to be the leader of the Greybeards, explained that the other monks’ Voices were so strong that if they spoke to Stenvar, his eardrums would shatter at best and he’d be dead in an instant at worst. Stenvar had just stared back in response, uttering nothing more than a dumbfounded grunt.

 

A wrinkled figure in grey robes with a deep grey beard sticking out from under the large hood he wore over his head emerged from the hallway on the left side of the chamber. It was Arngeir.

 

“Ah, Stenvar,” the Greybeard greeted him with a friendly smile. “You’ve returned.” He noticed the sack on the ground. “I see you’ve brought Klimmek’s supplies up. How kind of you to help him with his deliveries.”

 

Stenvar crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, I owed him one after he helped me get Cato up here that night.”

 

“Nevertheless, you did a good thing.” Arngeir stooped down to pick up the sack, though it was immediately clear that it was too heavy for the old man. Stenvar stood watching for a moment, considering his own aching arms. He sighed, reached down, and hefted the sack back over his shoulder. “Thank you, Stenvar,” Arngeir said with a slight bow. Stenvar grunted in response.

 

The two of them walked through the cold corridors of High Hrothgar. Stenvar shivered. He was grateful to be out of his armor for once. Though he hated the feeling of vulnerability and missed the familiar weight of steel, the brown tunic with long green sleeves he was currently wearing provided him protection from the bitter cold of the mountain that his armor couldn’t provide. Still, he could already feel his hands going numb from the cold. Most Nords he’d met – most people in general – would have no problem with this temperature. At worst, they’d be a little uncomfortable. Not Stenvar. He’d always been incredibly sensitive to the cold, with his hands and feet turning to ice with even the mildest cold. More than once he’d dreamed about moving to one of the southern regions of Tamriel, somewhere he wouldn’t have to worry about the cold ever again.

 

“How was your time down in the village?” Arngeir asked.

 

“Nothing to write home about. Just helped Timba Wide-Arms down at the mill. Pay wasn’t much, but at least it was something.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stenvar saw a look of disapproval pass briefly over the monk’s face. It was clear the monk was against doing things for material gain. The mercenary figured Cato had gotten his altruistic sentiments from hanging around the monks when they first began his Dragonborn training.

 

“What of the rest of the village?”

 

Stenvar adjusted his grip on the sack and scratched at his beard with one hand. “Wilhelm down at the inn was asking about Cato. Told him he was still recovering. Told me about what Cato did about the supposed spirit haunting Shroud Hearth Barrow. Said he owed Cato a debt of gratitude.”

 

“What of the others?” Arngeir urged Stenvar on with an expecting, almost hopeful tone.

 

Stenvar shrugged. “Beats me. I really couldn’t care less what’s on their minds.” Disappointment washed over Arngeir’s expression.

 

“I see,” he said. “Perhaps you would do well to check in with the townspeople. If one of them faces hardship, perhaps you may be the remedy they need to ease their suffering.”

 

“If they have the coin, I’d be more than willing to help them solve their problems. Otherwise, it’s no concern of mine. Not like I’ll be around here much longer. Once Cato it up and about, I’m out of here.”

 

They finally came to a room with a long table and high-backed chairs. Stenvar placed the sack on the table. “Speaking of Cato, how’s he doing?” he asked.

 

Arngeir shook his head. “The Dragonborn has still not awoken.” Stenvar said nothing. A dark cloud passed over his expression and he started to rummage through the sack to hide it. Arngeir placed a hand on Stenvar’s arm and the Nord stopped. “He bore many grievous wounds when you brought him to us. We did the best we could to help him along, but his body must finish mending itself. Do not worry, Stenvar. It will take time for him to heal, but he is not lost to us.”

 

Stenvar shrugged off the old man’s hand. “Never said I was worried. I’m just eager for him to wake up so I can leave this place and go somewhere warmer.”

 

“Is that why you spend so much time down in Ivarstead passing the days working and drinking?” the monk asked.

 

“I spend my days down there because I’d go mad spending my days here doing nothing but ‘meditating’ like you keep urging me to do.”

 

“Meditation clears the mind—”

 

“Yeah, ‘clears the mind, beings you closer to the sky.’ Not my kind of thing, Arngeir. As for the drinking, Vilemyr Inn is the only place for miles that a self-respecting Nord can get any mead around here.”

 

“Such substances only cloud the mind and taint the spirit. One’s Voice can only be clear once such things are removed from one’s life.”

 

“Tell that to Cato,” Stenvar mumbled under his breath.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Arngeir said nothing. He regarded the mercenary for a moment. “Go check on Cato, Stenvar,” he suggested. “Perhaps doing so will help put your mind at ease.”

 

Stenvar nodded. “Sure, why not. I was thinking of checking in on him soon anyway.”  He walked out of the room. As soon as he was out of Arngeir’s sight, he felt his shoulder’s slump and his carefree act slip away. He’d told Arngeir that he wasn’t worried about Cato, but in truth every moment that Cato remained asleep caused him to worry even more that he may never awaken. It was clear that Arngeir had seen through his façade. That old Nord had such an insightful way about it him. He always seemed to know what Stenvar was really thinking as though he knew him better than the mercenary knew himself.

 

It had been four days since Cato had collapsed in the cave. Stenvar remembered how he’d desperately shaken Cato’s limp body, begging him to wake up, afraid that all his efforts to save him had been for nothing. Relief had washed over him when he had felt Cato’s heart beating like a faint drum in his chest. As he’d carried Cato out of the cave, he’d realized he’d had no idea where to go. His first instinct was to ride back to Windhelm, but such a ride would have taken them hours. Then Cato had mumbled something that Stenvar had just been able to make out: Greybeards. He’d remembered hearing Cato mention that he had been heading off to see the old monks back at Kynesgrove. The Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel and home to High Hrothgar, had loomed above them in the distance.

 

“That really where you wanna go?” Stenvar had asked. As expected, Cato didn’t say anything else. Stenvar had sighed. “Have it your way.” Settling Cato into the saddle, Stenvar had mounted his horse, wrapped his arms around Cato to grab the reigns, and set off toward the small village of Ivarstead and Throat of the World.

 

Stenvar finally came to a doorway at the end of the hall. He looked around. None of the Greybeards were in sight. He took a deep breath, then quietly pushed open the door and stepped into the room. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could. The room was sparely decorated. Inside there was little more than a small dresser and a bed, as well as two more gold and blue banners with the strange symbols on them.

 

Sleeping in the bed, covered in bandages, was Cato. A sheet covered his body up to his ribs, leaving everything from the chest up exposed. He spotted Cato's scar on his right pectoral, the discolored skin standing out against the rest of his tan body. His skin was dotted with violet-blue and yellowing bruises, as well as cuts that had scabbed over.

 

There was an old wooden chair in the corner of the room. Stenvar lifted it up and carried it over, placing it down a few feet from the edge of the bed. He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. He rested his chin on his hands. He sat watching the slow rise and fall of Cato’s chest, each breath a reminder that he was still alive.

 

Every day for the past four days, Stenvar had sat there for a few hours, keeping a silent vigil over Cato. He told himself that there wasn’t much else for him to do up here, and he certainly wasn’t about to start meditating, but there was more to it. He’d fought alongside plenty of other men and women over his twenty years as a mercenary. They’d often synergize well in combat, but once the fighting was over they’d always go their separate ways without a second thought.

 

But Cato was different from the rest. He’d felt it when they’d fought the dragon together atop the hill. The effortless way in which they’d adapted to each other’s strategies, the way they’d played off each other’s strengths as if they’d been fighting together for years, the way Stenvar had felt completely comfortable putting his trust in Cato to watch his back when he’d served as bait for the man-eating beast. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was as though…

 

Stenvar shook the thought from his head. It was too early to be thinking such things. _Take it a step at a time,_ he told himself. The Nord stayed there watching over the Dragonborn until he leaned back in the chair and dozed off.

 

* * *

 

 

Stenvar inhaled sharply, his snores reverberating through his body. His arms were folded over his chest and his head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open. He lifted his head and yawned, stretching his arms out to his sides. He scratched at his beard and looked around. How long had he been asleep? The room had darkened, the light streaming through the foggy window pale and thin. Night had fallen.

 

Stenvar leaned forward, sighing as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Then he froze. He heard movement from the bed. His eyes shot up.

 

There on the bed was Cato, awake and looking around the room until his eyes settled on the man sitting in the chair. “Stenvar…?” he asked, his voice scratchy. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He inhaled sharply as pain shot through his body. In an instant, Stenvar was at his side.

 

“Hey, hey, take it easy, Cato,” Stenvar said, gently lowering the Imperial back down onto the bed.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“High Hrothgar. You were muttering about the Greybeards after you fell, so I brought you here. You don’t remember any of that?” Cato shook his head.

 

“How long have we been here?”

 

“Four days. You gave us all a good scare. The, uh, the Greybeards weren’t sure you’d wake up,” Stenvar lied. “I never doubted you’d pull through, though.” Cato coughed. It sounded dry and painful.

 

“Water,” he whispered.

 

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, water. One moment.” Stenvar left the room, quickly returning with a cup full of water in his hands. He leaned down and brought the cup to Cato’s lips, tilting it back slowly. Cato gulped it down without stopping for air. When he was done, he laid his head back on the pillow. “Thank you,” he said breathlessly.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Stenvar replied. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Like a frost troll beat me, ate me, and shit me out,” he grumbled. “But I’ll manage.”

 

Stenvar chuckled. “That’s usually how I feel after a rough night of alcohol and sex.” Cato laughed at that, though he clutched his ribs while doing so.

 

“Ah, it hurts to laugh,” he said, still smiling. The two men laughed together for half a minute until their laughter finally died down. They sat in silence a moment.

 

Cato broke the silence. “Why did you come back?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“We killed the dragon and I paid you. Your job was done. I figured you’d just go back to Windhelm and forget about me when another job came around. Yet you showed up at that cave at the right moment to save my life. You came after me.”

 

Stenvar hesitated before answering. “I was worried,” he admitted. “Last I’d seen you, you’d just fought a dragon with a goddamn hole in your side, then announced you were going to walk all the way to Ivarstead and climb the 7,000 steps without stopping to see a healer. I figured I should at least make sure you didn’t wind up dead on the side of the road.”

 

“You risked your life to save mine.”

 

“Pfft, I’d hardly say I risked my life. I take on bandits all the time, and those guys were far from the toughest bandits I’ve ever fought.”

 

“I’m sure Tr—that Redguard woman would beg to differ.”

 

Stenvar gave him a sidelong glance. “What are you trying to say?”

 

Cato stared back at him, a mischievous grin on his lips beneath the dark hairs of his beard. “I’m saying that from where I was watching, it looked like she was kicking your ass.”

 

“She was not ‘kicking my ass.’ I was in complete control of the situation. In fact, I was just about to turn the tables on her.”

 

“That’s funny, because to me it looked like she was just going to keep wailing on your face if I didn’t step in.”

 

“That’s not at all—” Stenvar began his retort, but cut quickly cut himself off. Cato was chuckling to himself now. “What’s so funny?”

 

“That stupid look on your face,” Cato replied, his chuckling morphing into full, rib-clutching laughter. Stenvar tried to fight it, but a small smile broke out on his own lips. He turned his head away so Cato couldn’t see.

 

“Gods, if I knew you were such a smart ass, I’d have stayed back at Candlehearth. At least there they have mead. How can these Greybeards call themselves Nords and swear off drinking mead?”

 

“You’re changing the subject,” Cato pointed out through his laughter.

 

“It’s a legitimate question!”

 

“You don’t want me talking about how you got your ass handed to you on a silver platter.”

 

“I’m this close to kicking your ass right here, right now. I don’t even care that you’re injured.”

 

Cato held up his hands, as much as he could with his injuries. “Alright, I’m done,” he surrendered, his laughter slowly fading. After a moment, he continued. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” The smile faded from his lips as he spoke.

 

“Yeah? What is it?”

 

Cato looked Stenvar in the eyes. “Why are you still here?”

 

Stenvar chuckled. “Well damn. If you want me gone so badly, you could just say so.”

 

“N-no, that’s not what I meant! I’m glad you’re here. I was just wondering: you could have left once you handed me over to the Greybeards, and yet you stayed here watching over me for four days.”

 

“How do you know I—”

 

“I woke up with you snoring in a chair a few feet from my bed. It’s not a stretch to think you spent the better half of the past four days in that same spot. I can’t imagine you stayed here for the Greybeards’ world-famous hospitality.”

 

Stenvar hesitated. He took a breath, then spoke. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” he began. Stenvar felt the heat rise to his face. “I was… well, I… I was thinking…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Look, I was just thinking that maybe I should stick around for a while.”

 

“To make sure I recovered?”

 

“Well, yeah, but also… after.”

 

“After? Wait, are you saying—”

 

Stenvar was blushing, his cheeks a deep scarlet color. “I, um, I want to go with you when you leave.” Cato was speechless.

 

“You want to go… with me?”

 

“Yeah. I…w-we fight well together,” he stumbled, trying to explain what he felt without actually saying it. “Besides,” he swiftly added, realizing how ridiculous he must sound. “I’ve saved your life twice now. Just imagine what would happen if I wasn’t there next time you got yourself into trouble.”

 

Cato looked at him skeptically. “What’s it going to cost me?”

 

Stenvar laughed with embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his head. “Don’t worry about that. Consider this one on me. I won’t charge you a septim.”

 

“I thought you weren’t in the business of doing things out of the kindness of your heart.”

 

“Yeah, well, I figured I could make an exception this one time.” He held out his hand. “So, what do you say? We in this together?”

 

Cato looked up at him with a smile on his face. He reached out and grasped Stenvar’s forearm. “We’re in this together, Sten.”

 

Stenvar gave him a bewildered look. “‘Sten’?”

 

Now it was Cato’s turn to blush. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t call you that if you don’t like it.”

 

Sten smiled back at him. “I like it.”

 


	9. Epilogue: The Thief

It was midday in Riften. Yelith emerged from The Bee and Barb and into the steady rainfall. Despite the weather, he looked across the cobbled street and saw that the circular marketplace was alive with activity. The stall owners called out to passersby, advertising their goods. Shoppers examined goods and tried, unsuccessfully, to haggle down the prices of various fruits, vegetables, cuts of meat, jewelry, and weapons.

Yelith bid farewell to Keerava and Talen-Jei, the Argonians who ran the inn, as the door swung shut behind him. He’d arrived in Riften only a few days ago and had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get a job working on the docks. His first night he’d planned on sleeping on the streets when Talen-Jei had stepped outside of The Bee and Barb and saw him. He’d informed Yelith that sleeping on the streets in Riften was an easy way to get himself robbed or killed, then brought Yelith inside where he’d met Keerava, the inn’s owner. She’d offered him a meal at a reduced cost, an offer which Yelith had gladly accepted.

As he ate, he’d talked with the Argonian couple. He’d told them that he had come to Skyrim with his family from Black Marsh a few years ago but that his family had been killed after his father made a bad deal. This story wasn’t a complete lie; he’d just left out how his family had actually been killed in Cyrodiil and that the person his father had made the deal with was none other than Livius, the leader of the Wolves of Oblivion bandit gang. His tale had worked; the Argonians took pity on him and offered him a room in The Bee and Barb at a greatly reduced rate until he was able to land himself a job. He thanked the couple, wondering to himself if they’d have made the same offer if he hadn’t been a fellow Argonian.

Today marked one week since he left the Wolves of Oblivion. Up until this point, no one had come for him seeking to punish his treason. Still, he didn’t allow himself to relax. Knowing the Wolves the way he did, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone tracked him down. He suspected it would be Sinris. The cat had always hated Yelith and would’ve jumped at the chance to put him in the ground. Until that day, which would surely be his last, arrived, Yelith was determined to keep a low profile and enjoy his freedom from the Wolves.

But living an honest life had proven more difficult than he’d anticipated. Since he was a young man, the only thing he’d ever known was thievery. He’d been an adolescent when his father had made that deal with Livius, that damn deal he should’ve known would fall through. His father had been a blacksmith, but his business had fallen on hard times. He’d hoped to make a deal with the Imperial Legion to supply them with his wares, but the Legion claimed it was unsatisfied with the quality of his steel. Yelith and his father knew the truth, that the Legion simply did not want a primary supplier of their goods to be Argonians like themselves.

In his desperation, Yelith’s father was approached by Livius. Livius claimed to represent a mercenary company and offered Yelith’s father a deal: make steel for him, and he would never go hungry. His father jumped at the chance, and for a while things had gone well. He would make an assortment of weapons and armor during the week, and at the end of the week a young man, whom Yelith later came to as Cato, would stop by and pick up the order, leaving behind a hefty leather purse full of coin.

And then Yelith’s father learned who Livius really was. He’d been in town and seen a wanted poster put up on the side of an inn. On it was Livius’s face. He was the leader of the infamous Wolves of Oblivion gang, wanted for robbery and murder. All of their gold had become tainted, stained with the blood of those Livius had stolen it from. Yelith’s father had wanted out of the deal. For two weeks, Cato had come by to find an empty shed waiting for him. On the third week, Cato was not alone. He was accompanied by Livius and a group of four or five bandits, all armed with his father’s steel.

Yelith bumped into a Nord women dressed in fine-looking clothes.

“Watch where you’re going,” she berated him.

“I’m terribly sorry, miss,” Yelith said, but she had already turned around and was walking away. Once he was certain she was out of sight, Yelith looked down at his hands. In his left hand he held the woman’s coin purse. There was some weight to it. He smiled to himself and slipped the purse into his pocket as he entered into the circular marketplace of Riften.

As he was eying his next target, a large hand grabbed his arm. He turned around, face-to-face with a Nord man. He had long red hair and short stubble lining his face. His features were angular and handsome. He wore blue clothes and was stone faced as he looked Yelith in the eyes.

“I saw what you did back there,” he said, he voice low. _Shit_. He was caught. Yelith kept his cool. This wasn’t the first time he’d been seen pickpocketing, and he’d become a master in the art of talking his way out of situations.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about,” he countered, his keeping his voice calm.

“Nice try,” the Nord replied, “but we both know exactly what I’m talking about.” Yelith yanked his arm free of the Nord’s grasp. The man didn’t move to grab him again. He simply shifted his weight and crossed his arms. From the tone in the man’s voice, it was clear this wasn’t the first time he’d caught someone stealing.

“Like I told you,” Yelith growled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The message in his tone was clear: _If you know what’s good for you, you won’t breathe a word of this to the guards._

“Perhaps this will jog your memory?” The Nord held out his left hand. In it, he held a coin purse. Instinctively, Yelith felt the pocket that he’d put the purse into. It was empty. He looked up at the Nord in shock.

“How did you—?”

“Those were some nice moves back there, lad,” the Nord said. “You move fast. Even if they were looking for it, few people would’ve been able to see you snatch the purse. But you can’t trick these eyes.”

“So, what now? You tell the guards? Send a poor Argonian to prison because he needed money for food?”

“Ha!” the Nord laughed. “The guards wouldn’t do anything even if they’d witnessed it themselves. They’re some of the biggest thieves around. Oh, quit looking at me like that, lad. These lips are sealed.” He tossed Yelith the coin purse. The Argonian caught it and slipped it into his pocket. As he turned to leave, the Nord spoke up again. “Although, I’ve got a job that may be suitable for a man of your talents. If you’re looking for pay.”

Yelith looked over his shoulder as he walked away. “Told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an honest man.”

“An honest man who can’t just can’t seem to get that dock job he wants.” Within seconds, Yelith had turned around and crossed the distance between himself and the Nord. He pressed the tip of his dagger to the Nord’s abdomen. He did all of this subtly, in such a way that wouldn’t draw the attention of the people walking about the marketplace.

“I’m not fond of people watching me,” Yelith hissed.

“I’d imagine you’re not fond of scrapping for coin either. I can pay. Do this job for me, you’ll have enough coin to last through the end of the week.”

“If I’m so talented, what makes you think I can’t earn that money myself?”

“Because you’re in Riften, lad. Talented or not, sooner or later you’re going to slip up, rob the wrong person. When that happens, it won’t be long before your limp body is found discarded in the ratway getting devoured by skeevers.”

Yelith kept the knife pressed the Nord’s body. “I’m listening.”

“It’s a simple job. See that Argonian over there? That’s Madesi. In the strongbox under his stall, there’s a silver ring. Steal that, then plant it on the Dark Elf, Brand-Shei.”

“This marketplace is crowded. How exactly do you expect me to pull that off without getting caught?”

“I’ll provide a distraction, grab everyone’s attention. From there, you should have no problem pulling it off.”

“Why Madesi’s ring?”

“It’s a valuable piece of silver. He’ll notice if it goes missing.”

“Why plant it on Brand-Shei?”

“Would it really matter if I you?”

Yelith grinned. He slipped his knife back into his belt. “Not really.”

“So you’re in?” The Nord held out his hand. Yelith shook it.

“I’m in. Give me the signal.”

A few minutes later, Yelith stood just outside the marketplace, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were subtly searching Madesi’s stall. Once he’d located the place where he believed the strongbox to be hidden, behind a small sliding door, he nodded to the red-haired Nord. The Nord nodded back, then cleared his throat.

“Everyone! Everyone!” The Nord was grandstanding, his voice loud and his gestures wide. “Gather ‘round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention!”

The stunt worked. Everyone in the marketplace looked over to him. Although a few people noticeably rolled their eyes, everyone in the marketplace, and even a few of the nearby guards, walked over to the Nord’s stall, giving him their full attention.

Yelith moves swiftly and quietly, gliding over to Madesi’s stall and ducking out of sight. He tried the sliding door. It was locked. From his sleeves he produced two small black iron tools: his lockpicking tools. Within seconds, he’s slipped past the lock and opened the door. He made equally quick work of the strongbox. He found the ring, a finely crafted silver loop, and slipped it into his pocket. He closed the lockbox and the sliding door and moved away from the stall. That was only one part of the job done, however.

Keeping a low profile, he slipped into the crowd, snaking his way through the bodies gathered around the Nord (who was now saying something about Falmer Blood Elixir) and positioned himself behind Brand-Shei. In one quick, imperceptible movement, he slipped the ring into the Dark-Elf’s pocket. Once the ring was planted, he slipped out of the crowd and left the marketplace. Done. All that was left to do was wait for the Nord to finish with the crowd.

Within a few minutes, the red-haired Nord had finished speaking. The crowd dispersed, grumbling to each other about how much time they’d wasted listening to him. As soon as everyone had cleared out, Yelith casually approached the Nord.

“Well, lad? How’d it go?” he asked.

“The dark elf didn’t even notice me slip the ring into his pocket,” Yelith replied. The Nord’s face lit up.

“Excellent work, lad! I knew you were a cut above the rest the moment I laid eyes on you.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin purse. “Your payment, as promised.” He tossed the purse to Yelith. The Argonian caught it in his left hand.

“Not that I’m one to brag, but that was amateur work,” Yelith remarked. “Anyone with some knowledge in lockpicking and the right amount of luck could’ve pulled that off. I can’t shake the feeling that this was some sort of test.” The Nord put his hands on his hips.

“You’re a perceptive one, I’ll give you that. You’re right; this was a test. You see, I represent an organization whose reputation is known quite well throughout Tamriel. Recently, our local branch here in Skyrim has fallen on hard times, and I figured recruiting some new blood may help get us back on our feet.”

“And you figured I’d make a good recruit?”

“Aye. You can pick pockets with the best of them, and it takes skill to be able to slip past those locks as quickly as you did.”

“What makes you think I’d want to join up with you? What if I really am trying to get on the straight and narrow path?” The Nord laughed, clearly not believing him.

“I’ll tell you why. We can offer you a roof to sleep under, a bed to sleep in, ale and mead to warm to belly, and, best of all, more gold than you could ever make working the docks. If you’re interested, of course.”

Yelith crossed his arms. “Alright. I’m listening.”

The Nord smiled. “Excellent choice, lad. Though I think we’d best should go somewhere more private to discuss it further. You never know who’s listening these days.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“There’s a series of tunnels below Riften known as the Ratway. Down there you’ll find a tavern called the Ragged Flagon. Meet me there, and we can talk more about my offer.”

Yelith nodded. “Deal.” He held out his scaly hand. “Name’s Yelith.”

The Nord gripped Yelith’s hand firmly and shook it. “Call me Brynjolf.”


	10. One Final Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Announcing: A Song Of Two Swords Redux! To all of my readers, thanks for your time you have spent reading this story. Please read through to the end of the announcement, and if you have enjoyed this story, please be sure to check out the reimagining that I am posting alongside this announcement.

So hello again all you readers. It's been. couple weeks since my last update, and I am happy to finally tell you all what I have been working on.

First, I want to say thank you all for the hits and kudos on comments on A Song of Two Swords. It has warmed my heart and rekindled my confidence as a writer to the point where I am now able to pursue more ambitious writing projects that I have been too scared to attempt before now. You readers are the best!

So moving on to the point at hand: I have decided to end the current version of A Song of Two Swords. Yes, I know the story is unfinished, but I Have run out of ideas and places to take the story in its current form. Looking back, I am unhappy with how certain aspects of characters came across and the odd ways that I have plotted the story. Ultimately, wherever I take the story from here will feel unsatisfactory to me, so I have no choice but to cut it short without finishing the story of Stenvar and Cato as I'd originally planned it.

But wait! Don't click away yet, there's more! I said that I can't go anywhere with  _THIS_ version of the story. You see, while trying to come up with different ways to continue the story, I settled on a. different idea: what if I started over from the beginning?  What if I reimagined the moment that Stenvar and Cato met? What if, rather than confining myself to loosely adapting the story of Skyrim, I break away from Bethesda's story and created a story all of my own, established canon be damned?

And so I got to writing, and I rewrote chapter one, and I have to say I really enjoy the result.

So, I am proud to announce, A Song of Two Swords: Redux! A reimagining of the story of Stenvar and Cato, Redux will present a new starting point for the story, featuring a different first meeting between the lonely old mercenary and the mysterious Dragonborn. This is a chance for me to not only tell a complete story as I want it, but also a chance to better characterize my protagonists and explore the bond that grows between them as a single chance encounter sends these two strangers on an unexpected journey together, one that will test their mettle as warriors, push the limits of their resolve, weave them through the shifting grey corridors of morality, and explore aspects of their characters that neither men had the courage to face alone.

 _Chapter One: A Chance Encounter_ will be posted alongside this announcement. But while I make a few final adjustments, here's a preview! If you like what you read, be sure to follow the rest in _A Song of Two Swords: Redux_ by TheWolfDragon15!

 

A Song of Two Swords: Redux

Chapter One Preview

 

Stenvar stumbled out into the dark street. A light snow had begun to fall, blanketing the cobbled streets and buildings in white. He tightened the wolf fur cloak around his shoulders that draped over his steel armor. He sighed. The cloak used to smell like the man who’d given it to him. But like that man, the smell had long since departed. He wondered where Farkas was now. Most likely he was still in Whiterun with the Companions warrior guild. Did Farkas still think of him? Of the bond they’d once shared?

He took of a swig of the ale. _This stuff can’t drown my brain fast enough,_ he thought. He walked down the snow-covered street and took a right down a dark alley. With every step he took away from Candlehearth Hall, he hoped to put another step between him and his thoughts of lost love and loneliness.

As he turned the corner of the alley, stumbling against the wall, he noticed movement further down the alleyway. He squinted, trying to see through his slightly shifting vision as the alcohol began to take hold. It looked like three shadows were…fighting? It was hard to make out what he was seeing, as all he could really see were three dark shapes moving back and forth, but it looked like one of the figures was trying to fight back against the other two.

“Hey,” Stenvar called out against his better judgement. “The hell’s going on here?” Immediately the three shadows stopped moving. He stumbled his way further into the alley. The closer he got, the easier it was to make out what was happening. Two of the figures wore hide and leather armor pieces that seemed to have been hastily modified to add sleeves, as though they and their armor had come from some warmer climate. The patch job was shoddy, though, and the sleeves were patchy and torn. One of them was a Redguard man with the sides of his head shaved and a steel sword in his hand. The other was a female wood elf. She had a steel dagger in her left hand and a second one strapped to her hip. With her right arm, she had a third figure pinned up against the wall. The third figure wore dark traveling clothes with a hood pulled over his head obscuring his features. All Stenvar could really make out was the figure’s burly physique beneath his ill-fitting clothes.

The Redguard and Bosmer nodded at each other. The Redguard broke away to approach Stenvar while the woman remained with the burly figure struggling in vain to escape her grip. “This doesn’t concern you, old man,” the Redguard warned. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just turn around and go home.”

Stenvar didn’t move. The cold snow stung against his bald head. He scratched at his short grey-streaked dark blonde beard. Any other man would’ve done just that: go home. This situation didn’t involve him. It would be much easier to just turn around, head back to the inn, pass out on the bed, and forget what he saw here.

Yet his legs remained planted firmly where he stood. He’d seen enough in his forty-seven years of life to know that once he was out of sight, that man against the wall would end up on the ground, sucking down his last breath as his blood pooled around him from an open wound in his neck. Stenvar was a lot of things these days: sellsword, drunk, loner. But the one thing he wasn’t, and would never be, was someone who could live with himself knowing he let an innocent person die when he could’ve done something.

 “Get this drunkard out of here, Hinod,” the elf hissed when Stenvar didn’t move. “The guards will be here any moment.”

“Help m—” the hooded figure began, but before he could the words out the elf pressed her arm into his neck, choking the words in his throat.

The Redguard was growing frustrated. “We’re dangerous people, old man. If you don’t get your ass out of here, we’ll be forced to slit that saggy throat of yours.” He brandished his sword, holding it up to that the distant torch light from the street glinted off its blade. “I won’t warn you again. Go pass out in puddle of your own piss elsewhere, or I’ll leave you lying in a pool of your blood, you drunk—"

“Three mistakes,” Stenvar interrupted him. “First, calling me ‘old man’. Now, I may be getting up there in age, but I’m a far cry from those sad old Nords sitting on gilded thrones who can scarcely lift a weapon. The last person who insisted on calling me ‘old man’ spent the rest of his night puking his guts out after I introduced his stomach to my fist.”

Stenvar cracked his knuckles. “Your second mistake,” he continued, “was thinking you could intimidate me.”

There was another reason why Stenvar wasn’t going to just walk away tonight: he was bored. And what better cure for boredom than a good old fashioned brawl?

The Redguard held up his sword, preparing to run it through Stenvar’s gut. “You’re going to regret this, old man,” the Redguard growled.

Stenvar smirked. “Why don’t you come make me?”


End file.
